


Never again.

by SheyRicci



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Gen, General, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheyRicci/pseuds/SheyRicci
Summary: Betty Blackburn always felt her husband embellished the stories he regaled her with about life with Bravo's rookie - Clay Spenser - for her entertainment.He. Didn't.
Comments: 59
Kudos: 214





	1. Chapter 1

"Whose car is this?" Vic ran a hand along the stitched leather seat. "Nice set of wheels."

"It's a GMC Yukon XL Denali." Betty piped up from the back seat. Vic huffed, patience thin. He hadn't asked _what_ it was, he'd asked _whose_ it was. He could see and read very well, thank you very much. "6.2 liter, V8 engine, four-wheel drive, with a 10-speed automatic transmission." Vic rolled his eyes. Yeah, like she knew that. She was simply parroting what her husband had told her. "460 pounds of torque with a 24-gallon gas tank.

"Uh, yeah?"

"The red is such a lovely color." She continued. And now she was doing what all women did. She prattled on about what mattered to her; cup holders and heated seats, remote start and leg room, keyless easy entry and storage. Ugh, women. What did the color matter? "Do you like it? It rides well, don't you think?"

"Uh, very well." Vic managed. "Yes, uh, not cheap, I suppose. Blackburn can afford this?"

"Lopez." Clay hissed a warning. "Jesus, enough."

"Well, Christ Spenser, it's gotta be an $80,000.00 car!"

"Oh no, he didn't buy it!" She chirped. "It's his company car and he got it for me to drive. He's rarely home, you know."

 _Uh, duh lady. Yeah, I know that. When he's away from home, I'm with him_. "What'd you do to get me mixed up in this?" Vic complained. "This your penance? Shouldn't be mine. Can't you do your shit on your own time?" Good Grief, was Lt. Commander Blackburn really married to this scattered-brained twit nattering on in the backseat about how many wide-bottomed, big store shopping bags she could put in the cargo area?

"Language." Tsked-tsked Mrs. Bonsky from the back seat. "Really Betty, this is the best your husband could do?" She dapped a rose-water scented lace handkerchief to her upper lip. "Told you that Eric would never amount to anything…but would you listen? Nooo."

"You also said our marriage wouldn't last." Betty said mildly, smiling at Vic's stiff-necked posture. She was getting on his last nerve. Well, good. His ego and attitude annoyed her.

"Psssh….you were too young to get married."

Betty looked out the window. She'd been raised barefoot and carefree in the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains where everyone got married young, raised a family. It was what she'd wanted and what she'd got. A military man hadn't been on her list, but when she'd met Eric, military it had been.

They'd dated while he'd been away at college….the Naval Academy in Annapolis…and oh, it had been so far away. Then marriage and three kids, and while he'd settled into his 'career', she'd been a stay-at-home-mom. Content to move every few years, she uprooted the kids, settled them into a new school and somehow, managed NOT to raise military brats.

But then, Eric had had the opportunity to put down roots and while she hadn't openly pushed him to accept the position, she'd been soooo very grateful when he had. She liked Virginia Beach, if not the humid summers, but the mountains were not far away and if she wanted to, she could visit family during the hottest weeks for a bit of relief. And of course, there was central a/c…woot!

"Perhaps we were." She replied calmly. "But we managed to make it work."

Having had the kids so young, they were all grown and moved out now. Either in college, married or starting a career. Grandkids would soon come, she hoped, though Eric was not at all convinced he was old enough to be 'Pop-Pop'.

She smiled at the thought…..people in their 30's became grandparents! It wasn't the normal by any means, but it wasn't unheard of either. And Eric was no longer in his 30's, so...come on grandbabies!

"Are we almost there?" Mrs. Bonsky tapped on the back of Vic's headrest. "There had to be a shorter way, don't you think?"

"Sure thing, Mrs. B."

She didn't know how long it took to get where they were going? Clay tucked that bit of information away, let it go for now.

"Mrs. Bonsky," she corrected with a sniff. "You young 'uns today, always too lazy to pronounce the entire name. Why, I'll have you know, I was raised in a Polish town. No abbreviations in my day. Our teachers, were always Mr. Wasielewski and Mrs. Dominikowski. Why, we'd get our knuckles rapped with a metal edged ruler, we tried calling either Mr. W or Mrs. D!"

Betty chewed her lip to avoid smirking. Her mother had no way of knowing she was berating one of the best trained, elite _killers_ the U.S. military had.

She didn't know much about Victor Lopez, but she knew what his job was even if he was new to the team and Eric was still 'getting a feel' for him. Eric had worked with SEAL teams for over twenty years now, and while she didn't know details of missions and jobs, she knew how they were trained, what they did.

Why, Jason Hayes had the ability to snap the neck of someone on a crowded New York subway car and no one would even know he'd done it. She knew this, because Eric had told her he'd done it. Well, not in New York, no…..still, did _where_ really matter?

Now, Clay Spenser? Pfft, she knew more about him then the Navy doctors, therapists, psychologists and specialists all put together. She knew his skills, his abilities, his talents. His 'stupid' habit of taking dangerous risks, his 'reckless' habit of jumping into danger without thought, his 'unique knack' for find trouble. His propensity for getting lost, taken, kidnapped, abducted, snatched, captured, jumped, go missing, disappear.

He was damn good at math and able to do calculations in his head, making him one of the best trained snipers the Navy had. He was loyal, dedicated, dependable, had his brothers backs, no matter what. He ran from nothing, knew no bounds, tested all limits. Who wouldn't want that?

But, Eric stressed, he was young and impulsive and while he would someday be a great team leader, he still had a lot to learn. Jason was fond of saying, he had never been as stupid at making decisions as Spenser was.

Eric begged to differ.

Her husband had spent many a night while she combed hair dye through his beard, telling her what had turned him grey: a job, a mission, an escapade – Jason Hayes, Clay Spenser. He'd shared stories about what the team had done to get their kid back. Where they had gone, who they had ignored, how they disobeyed orders, what it had cost, how it had been done. Not that she could ever admit to such a thing.

He told her how the kid had accepted Bravo because, according to the experts – and no, he'd never said who those experts were – they had already been a unit when Clay joined the team. The problem came when someone new joined or ran with them and you gave him an aspirin and he ended up singing to an ex-girlfriend before pulling a gun on a teammate. Well, okay, he'd admitted that was a bit of an understatement….the medication had been more than an aspirin, but still….holding a loaded gun on anyone was a big no-no.

He'd told her how the kid would disappear right in front of their eyes. Be there one second, gone the next. They blinked, and it was like he'd hadn't been standing _right the fuck there_. How they turned around and they were alone. How the kid found trouble in the bathroom, in bed, in the hospital.

Now, she loved her husband. Her love, trust and faith in him had no bounds. He protected her freedom, her every day way of life, her country and everyone who lived within its borders, but still, and she'd never admit it, she found his description of life with Clay, rather hard to believe. Then again, she'd never known anyone who threw such reactions to medication or illicit drugs either, so...eh.

Whatever, she knew he and Jason had their hands full with the boy, who trouble just found.

Eric had been hesitant about letting Clay go with her….no, take her? No, she was basically accompanying him, even if he hadn't yet realized it. Anyway, Eric had warned her, keeping track of Clay right under her nose would be harder than she thought it would be.

She doubted that. Really, how hard could it be? She shook her head with a smile…men.

"We're just dropping them off, right?" Vic said to Clay. "Spenser? We aren't staying, we'll go back, pick them up next week. Tell me we're not staying. Say something."

Clay didn't answer, choosing to concentrate on the traffic.

He hadn't wanted to escort the ladies anywhere, but he hadn't had a choice. The orders had come from Blackburn and when he'd objected, McCall had just so happened to choose that exact moment to enter the room, pick up a file, give a nod and walk right back out.

Coincidence? Clay thought not.  
Show of support? Solidarity? Clay thought so.

"You were told to pack a bag." He said finally.

"How again, did this become our job?" Vic continued to grouse. "I didn't do anything. You did. You're the one that ran away from home. Still don't know why I'm here."

Clay rolled his eyes, turned left. "Seven days." He smirked, eased into the left lane gained speed before risking a sly glance sideways. He didn't know why he was stuck with Lopez either. He'd argued with Jason over Vic coming with him until a mug had been thrown at his head.

"But…why?" Hell, all he'd been told was; Bravo's stay at home had been extended another seven days, he was accompanying Clay and 'that was an order'.

The team had scattered:

Sonny had headed home to Texas.  
Metal had returned to his wife's family mountain retreat.  
Trent and the tribe had loaded up the RV and hit the road.  
Brock was off-grid with the family.  
Ray was holed up in the new house with a contractor.  
Jason had hit the road to visit Emma, taking Mikey along for the ride.

Vic didn't even know why Clay was escorting the ladies to the spa or staying until it was time to return them home. No one ever told him anything _and_ he felt he should have been given leave along with the rest of Bravo.

But no, he was heading to the hills of North Carolina somewhere with two old ladies for a week stay at an old fogey resort…where there would be absolutely nothing to do…ugh.

And he didn't even know why…and there was nothing he could do about it.

***000***

"Hey!" Vic rapped on the door, tried the knob, discovered the door was locked. "Ready for breakfast? Early bird special, then I can get the hell outta here for a couple hours. Let's go!" He rat-a-tatted an obnoxious staccato on the door. "You in there?" He rattled the knob, thumped with this knee, rapped with his knuckles. "YO! Dude!"

Clay rolled over, shoved at his unruly hair that curled in the humidity, sat up but didn't get out of bed. He wasn't hungry, he had a headache and the thought of getting up and going anywhere soured his stomach. The room was cool, the a/c was working, but he was sticky, had to peel the sheet off his legs.

But Vic wasn't going away. "I'm hungry! Come on!"

"Yeah." He called out so Vic would stop knocking. "Coming."

He rolled off the bed, in addition to his aching hip and touchy side – both courtesy of Vic yesterday, his chest was sore…..eh, too much swimming a stroke he didn't usually swim, he guessed. Ow. Would he never learn? So much for trying to use muscles in a different way since the gym lacked certain equipment – and he couldn't even blame that one on Vic!

"You eating?" Vic rattled the knob again, as if this time, it would magically open. "Dude, door's locked."

"Yeah, take the hint, asshole." Clay muttered. He'd wear a ball hat to tame his hair, but it was rude to wear a hat at the breakfast table, so he ran a comb under the cold-water spigot, wetted it down.

Vic pounded again as Clay buttoned the fly on his cargo shorts. "Knock it off!" He yelled, adding his phone and wallet to his pockets. "Jesus, you ass." He yanked the door opened, stepped out, locked the door behind him. "No hurry, you know."

"What the hell were you doing?" Vic scowled, led the way. "Good God, I get you outta bed or something? You're always up before dawn."

"Sure." Clay stepped aside to allow a woman with a walker room to pass. "Ma'am."

"Stop dawdling." Vic huffed. Two people could have passed in the hallway without having to stop and he was annoyed that Clay had done so, even though the delay had been brief. Very brief, but still... "I'm hungry, and I don't wanna be late."

"Late to breakfast that lasts three hours?" Clay scoffed. "Didn't need me to eat, you're so worried about it."

Vic didn't feel comfortable eating with the 'mere' staff in the kitchen where Clay usually enjoyed his meals, so this time, Clay caved and they ate in the main dining room. He was just too tired and too sore to argue and they were guests, so were allowed, but still, Clay felt awkward. He didn't like buffet dining. Oh, he liked the all-you-can-eat, unlimited feature, but too many people reached across or leaned over the dishes and pans of food.

Clay preferred to take his meals in the kitchen because there, he was served pancakes, eggs, bacon for breakfast, steak and potatoes for dinner. No fruit cups, no smoothies, no heart-heathy, salt-less rabbit food unless it was wanted.

It wasn't.

This was their third morning at the resort and though Vic had whined and complained hourly about being bored with nothing to do, Clay had been content with his 'forced' escorting job to the 'mountain retreat'.

His single room – thank God he didn't have to share with Vic – was quiet, comfortable, had Wi-Fi, cable, a Smart TV, a DVD player and a view of the mountains. The library was more than adequate – spy novels and mysteries, mindless drivel, but entertaining and enjoyable all the same – as well as a good selection of movies.

He rarely saw the guests, and the staff gym, though not by any means what he was accustomed to, was equipped well enough to keep him in shape for seven days. There was an outdoor pool which he visited twice daily – he avoided the one indoors for obvious reasons – and mountain trails for walking, running or biking. Both part of the reason he ached and felt like shit.

 _Weeelllll_ …he reached for his glass of juice, paused with a wince, shifted his weight, reached again….ow…..exercise and fucking Vic.

He'd gone head-over-heels off the mountain bike he'd taken out yesterday when the asshole had jumped into his path in a lame attempt to either scare or prank him. Unable to swerve to avoid him because Vic had also scared a pair of old men half out of their wits and they'd remained frozen on the narrow path, he'd ploughed right into him.

He'd been coming downhill at a speed probably not considered safe when yeah, unable to brake in time and unable to go around Vic, he'd allowed himself to _feel_ the pleasure from flattening the asshole with a fat, aggressive-tread tire – there'd been no other choice than to smack right into him.

He'd pitched head first off the bike, landed on his back and the momentum had caused him to tumble down a hill, only stopping when his right hip slammed against a rock large enough to halt his rapid descent...owowowowowow...and, yeah, he was still feeling it. He was bruised, scraped, cut, swollen, and had road rash. OW, indeed.

It had been either choose one of the old men to take out or…..he grinned….Vic, who griped Clay should have laid the bike down, but he'd been going too fast and the men had appeared out of nowhere, hadn't moved and there really hadn't been time to do anything but brace for impact when the front tire hit Vic square in his chest. Heeheehee! Oh Yeah!

He waved off a refill of juice, smiled his thanks…. eh, he'd had worse falls over the years.

Thankfully, he hadn't landed on his head because he hadn't been wearing a helmet. Something he was sure Doc would hear about and he'd be lectured about safety and precautions and protection….yaddayaddayadda…blahblah-blah.

He eyed Vic who sat across from him, rubbing his chest where he'd taken the brunt of the hit…..served him right for being an asshole…..sighed, sat back, stretched.

There was a retired doctor on-site for the usual aches and pains. He puttered about, distributing band-aids, aspirin and tut-tutting as he doled out icepacks and menthol rub.

Clay had already seen him three times, even though he was convinced, should he need Trent-mandated medical care….he wouldn't receive it here. But it made Betty happy and he'd been able to see what medications he had in his office - he had more in his first aid kit - so…yeah…there was that….for whatever it was worth.

He'd dutifully checked in with him once he arrived as ordered – Betty had escorted him like a mother ordering about a recalcitrant teen-ager – sat patiently while the doctor read the file from Doc and poked and prodded along Clay's side. He'd declared Clay fine and fit and sent him on his way.

He'd seen him after the fall off the bike because Betty had all but dragged him by his ear. She'd made Vic go as well and other than the obvious bruises, cuts and scrapes, both had been deemed fit and fine.

He'd had no intention of informing her of the accident, but the men on the path had told the story time and again to everyone they saw and by the 10th or so retelling, Clay had become the 'Greatest American Hero' – complete with tousled blonde curls and blue eyes – with the ability to soar like an eagle but absolutely no skill at landing.

Yeah, he was sure he'd ended up 'landing' in an undignified heap after that spill off the bike. He'd landed so hard, he'd accepted Vic's help getting back to the path.

"Dunno why you're sitting there, wincing." Vic commented. "I'm the one in pain over here. You should see the bruise on my chest from the bike tire."

"Dunno Vic, maybe 'cause you threw me into a railing?"

Vic scowled, drank some coffee so he didn't snap back.

Last night, after dinner, he and Clay had gotten into it on the outdoor patio over the way Vic was treating the staff. Yes, he did feel it was their job to cater to his needs, whatever he wanted, to clean up after him and he didn't see why he should say thank you, please or tip the waiters, maids, housekeeping, laundry or room service, or the porters. Since this was an 'all inclusive' resort, and his stay was being paid for, he felt gratuities should be included.

Though he and Clay hadn't discussed it, someone was paying for the four of them to stay here and it wasn't cheap. To their trained eye, and Mrs. Bonsky's comment about the directions, it was obvious that neither Betty nor her mother had ever been here before. The ladies didn't know what to do or how to interact with many of the guests who obviously had been here before.

So yeah, he'd been sent on a forced 'vacation' to babysit Clay, he didn't know why and he wasn't any too happy about it. He just hadn't figured out the role the ladies played in this trip, but he damn well bet Spenser had.

He didn't see why he had to spend his own money on tips or why Clay made such a big deal about it. He didn't even know why he was here. He didn't want to be. When he'd asked why he had to go, he'd been told it was his fault Clay – he begged to differ – was hurt and his responsibility to make sure Clay rested and healed without further issue. Whatever. He was wasting his time, his talent. He was trained for combat, not…not…well, not this. Not rusticating in the hills with old people.

He didn't see how anything was his fault, but there was no arguing with Blackburn.


	2. Chapter 2

"I didn't _throw_ you, you asshat." He finally retorted with a scowl. "Chill out. Not my fault, you lost your balance."

"Really?" Clay raised an eyebrow. "None?"

Voices had been raised, words had become ugly, pushing and shoving had ensued. Vic had placed both hands on Clay's shoulders and forcefully shoved him backwards. Off balance due to an aching hip, his entire body sore and not expecting the shove, Clay had fallen backwards into the metal railing that topped the fence around the outdoor patio that was just the right height, he hit the edge with his already bruised kidney.

Wow, his right side was really taking a beating.

Clay hadn't been able to hide the wince or suppress his hiss of pain. He'd been slow to get up and though he'd tried, he hadn't been able to hide a limp. He was still sore from the tumble off the bike and roll down the hill.

He'd tried to blow it off, but Betty had ordered him to see the doctor – hence, his third visit. Again, the man hadn't done more than ask him simple questions and poke at the bruise with a gloved hand. With a warning to let him know, should Clay see blood in his urine, he'd sent him on his way with a warning to take it easy the rest of the night.

So, he had. He'd donned headphones, sprawled in a hammock tied between two trees and read until it had become too dark to see, then retired to his room and watched TV until he'd fallen asleep, still wondering how Betty had even known about the incident.

He'd gone to bed with one hell of a headache though and ugh, this morning, he'd woken up with it and was so stiff and sore, more than he'd expected to be, that he felt like doing absolutely nothing.

He'd taken some aspirin sometime during the night, but it hadn't worked. Maybe he'd spent too much time in the sun, or hadn't had enough to eat at dinner. Maybe it was the tension of dealing with Vic. Maybe the spill from the bike, the roll down the hill, the collision with the fence, had caught up to him. Or maybe he'd hit his head and hadn't known it.

He ran his finger through his curls…time for a haircut….nope, no lumps or bumps, so maybe it was his sinuses due to the barometric pressure from the building storm, the one the news said could become a dangerous hurricane. The guests had been assured they were safe at the resort: There were no close trees in danger of crashing through a roof, they were too high in the mountains to flood and should wind become a problem, the main building with the guest rooms had been built to withstand hurricane strength winds.

He massaged his temples with the pads of his thumbs. Hopefully eating something would ease this damn headache. He'd go to the kitchen after breakfast, get a popsicle or something cold to eat.

"I didn't throw you." Vic repeated crossly. "Learn to stand on your two feet. Maybe then, the team won't always have to chase after your ass." Man, but Spenser just pissed him off and they were only eating breakfast. Clay was at ease with the staff, at home in their world and no matter how hard Vic tried, he just wasn't accepted as easily as Clay was. "What are you smirking at?" He demanded angrily. He'd loved to wipe that shit-eating grin right off Spenser's smug face.

Clay blinked, Vic's annoying tone pushed through his thoughts, cut short his wallowing about his misery.

"Just thinking about what Jason's gonna say." Clay's lips stretched across his teeth in some semblance of a smile. Ray might believe Vic was innocent and agreeable but Jason wasn't yet sold on that. Clay never would be.

"About what? You insisting I don't treat the help the way you think I should?" Vic sneered. "Yeah, good luck with that. Ain't shit he's gonna do about it."

Clay tilted his head, stared his teammate down.

"Nah, your momma shudda done that." He strongly suspected this trip wasn't punishment. It was a way for Jason to separate Clay from Rebecca while he rested and let his kidney heal while avoiding temptation to travel or 'meet her'. And he was okay with that, he just didn't understand why he'd been saddled with freakin' Lopez.

"Fuck you."

Clay flipped him off, ate the last piece of now cold bacon on his plate. Breakfast was over.

Really, his team was going to have to accept the presence of a girlfriend in his life. They accepted every other wife, girlfriend, fiancée…whatever the hell Pam was, so they would just have to find a way to welcome Rebecca.

"Why you gotta be such a jerk?" Vic asked. He didn't understand why Bravo, Blackburn and Davis included, hovered over Spenser like he was the Golden Child come to Earth.

It. Fucking. Drove. Him. Nuts.

Mostly, because no one would tell him anything. And what pissed him off even more was Metal, who hadn't run with Bravo the first two and half years Clay had been on the team, knew everything Vic didn't.

Yeah, the big guy had led Alpha, the team that most often accompanied Bravo on missions, but even so, a lot had happened when Metal hadn't been with the team, and yet, he knew _everything_!

In order to get a feel for the team, understand how they operated, Vic had requested and been allowed, access to the action reports of Bravo's missions. He'd read them all but either a lot was left out or Bravo ridiculously over-reacted when it came to Clay, because nothing he'd read led him to believe any of the stories they told about Spenser or any of the rumors he'd heard.

When he asked questions, only Ray would give him any kind of answer:

Metal shrugged, said it was all before his time, walked away.  
Sonny guffawed, tweaked Vic's nose, walked away.  
Brock, who never spoke anyway, shrugged his shoulders, walked away.  
Trent simply glared, muttered something about life with Clay, walked away.  
Davis explained her new status prohibited her from discussing it, walked away.  
Blackburn questioned why Vic would question him, walked away.  
Jason said it was need to know basis, and Vic didn't need to know, walked away.  
Mandy - yes, he'd even approached her, asked why it mattered, walked away.  
Ray explained Clay had suffered an allergic reaction to a combination of meds but was okay now.

Whatever the hell that meant.

Didn't explain all the jokes and comments about 'losing the kid'; whose turn had it been to watch the rookie, or the utter panic he observed on the team when Clay had been out of their sight longer than they thought he should be.

"It's a knack." Clay responded, left a five-dollar-bill on the table, pushed back his chair. He needed a moment before he tried to stand. His hip had locked and he flexed/scrunched his butt in an attempt to make the muscle ease.

Finishing his coffee, Vic asked. "What're'ya gonna do all day?" He didn't care, but he had plans, wanted to throw it in Clay's face.

Clay leveled the man across the table from him with a look, almost a sneer, finally felt confident, rose to his feet.

"Plenty to do." He said evasively. "Don't start worrying about me now."

Vic shrugged. That meant Clay had plans to do something, most likely with some of the staff. Hell, it bugged him how everyone liked Clay and included him in everything. Clay, Clay, Clay. Always so polite and courteous and friendly and helpful. So well-mannered, chivalrous. Gag…it was enough to make him puke.

He waited, but Clay didn't invite him to join whatever outing was planned. Yeah, well, the friendly blonde prick wasn't the only one who could make friends.

"I'm headed into town, catch a movie with a couple of the guys from lawn maintenance." They hadn't invited him, he'd had to ask to tag along. No one asked him to go fishing or invited him to enjoy a couple beers at a campfire party. No, that had been Clay.

"Today? You didn't watch the news?" Clay felt obligated to advise. The crew that maintained the lawns were temps hired for the summer. They were loud and lewd, rude and crude, and weren't well liked among the permanent staff, so of course Lopez had bonded with them.

He had no idea what the hell Vic did all day…and he didn't really care, but those guys were up to no good. He sighed, the team wanted the two newest members to get along. For whatever reason, it was important to Ray, so that made it matter to Jason. Clay was trying, he really was. But there was just something about Victor Lopez that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He couldn't explain it, it just was.

"Why?"

"Look out the window, you ass. You don't hear, see the storm? You do watch the news, don't you?"

"Really? Huh." Vic shrugged, blew the storm, his teammate off. "The news? No, why would I?" 'cause, Clay thought, you don't, you might get caught in a flood caused by a burst dam, be rescued by two well-meaning, but senile ladies and bartered away for two cats. "Don't go getting yourself hurt." He was warned. "Well, any worse than you already have."

"You should take a hike, maybe you'll do us all a favor and get lost." Clay shot back. "I ain't coming to your rescue, but I'll send out a search party." He'd finally, reluctantly, agreed to accompany the ladies to the resort, but no matter how much he'd protested, Jason had assigned Vic to be Clay's babysitter.

Like he needed one.

"Awww…you make me all warm and fuzzy." Vic snarked.

"Jason expects it of me." Clay shot back.

Vic scowled, decided the $5.00 was enough for the both of them, stood up, led the way from the room. "So, you wanna come?" He asked, as they weaved their way through a throng of slow-movers. "Or wait, you got 'plans'?" He mimicked sarcastically. He should back off a bit, knew he was pushing, but goody-two shoes Spenser, ugh, just egged him on.

Clay held back a huff. No, he didn't want to go. He didn't want to spend any more time with Vic than he had to. And he did have plans. He was going to hit the gym then retire to his room where he'd Skype with Rebecca before reading a book from the library in bed, see how he felt after resting a bit. He was sore, aching and his headache hadn't abated. Hell, his eyebrows throbbed.

With the weather raging, and the news meteorologist calling for the forecast to get worse, it made sense to stay put. Preferably in his room, and well away from Vic.

"Gonna hit the gym, call Rebecca, then yeah, found a good mystery to read."

"Always got your nose in a book." They entered the room with the saunas, whirlpool tubs and mud pits. "Dunno when you find the time to….." Vic bumped into a girl who was coming around the corner, arms full of magazines and books. The force of contact knocked her back several steps and the contents in her arms hit the floor when she fell into a table. "Watch where you're going." He scornfully chided her.

"Do you always have to be an ass?" Clay commented as he squatted down, gathered the pile of books strewn across the floor. "Not the place Lopez." He added once he had returned the items to the arms of the employee, who smiled and thanked him, shot a dirty look at Vic.

Vic hadn't even apologized or offered to help her gather what she dropped. He'd stepped over the strewn pile on the floor, kept on walking. When she'd stumbled against the table, glasses and dishes had been upended, but hadn't fallen. Again, Vic hadn't offered assistance or even inquired if she was alright.

That attitude and behavior is what made Clay have a hard time liking the guy. Those actions just pissed him off to the point, he couldn't warm up to the newest member of Bravo, no matter how hard he tried.

Vic smirked: Clay Spenser, ladies and gentlemen. Always courteous, forever polite.

"Yeah? What'cha gonna do about it Spenser?" Vic threw his arms wide. "Don't see anyone here to take your side this time. You're all on your own, walk away, read our book, you wimp."

Punching a teammate, a brother, in the mouth was frowned upon. Would probably result in running multiple flights of steep, concrete steps…..but Clay didn't care. He was done. He limped, gimped, had a sore hip, numerous bruises, burning scrapes and road rash, and it was all Vic's fault.

His right fist shot out, connected solidly. He pulled his punch, and Vic retained possession of all his teeth though both his lips split and he rocked back a couple of steps.

"You're an asshole." Clay retorted as Vic raised a hand, dabbed at first one bloody lip, then the other. He'd had enough of his teammate, his mouth, his attitude, his insults, his actions. He didn't feel well, his head was killing him, had been all damn night, he was in considerable discomfort because of the mouthy ass and he'd gotten little sleep because Vic simply would not leave him alone.

"I'm sick of you and your fucking attitude." Vic spat.

"What are you gonna do about it? Wanna come at me? Come on!" Clay raised his voice angrily, threw his arms wide, waited. "COME ON!"

Vic glared, wiped his fingers on his hip, considered throwing down with Spenser, decided against it. Whatever punishment Jason would dole out, just wasn't worth it.

"Yeah." Clay scoffed scornfully, "What I thought." He turned to walk away and Vic snapped, lunged forward.

"You might be the best shot I've even seen, but that don't make you better than anyone else." Vic growled. He expected to simply shove Clay off balance, maybe knock him into a table, but Clay, tired, sore, and bruised with a splitting headache, staggered sideways, not forward and the girl with the magazines tried to steady him, but slipped in spilled water and knocked against his shoulder.

The combined shove and knock propelled him forward with such force, he went head-first into the mud pit.

He didn't even try to stop himself because he was so sick of Vic's shit, he knew this would get reported to Betty and Vic would find himself in trouble with both Blackburn and Jason….hahahah….maybe he wouldn't have to run concrete stairs after all.

Childish? Yes. Did he care? No.

That's what happened when he had a sick headache and Vic came pounding on his door, dragged him to a breakfast he didn't want and badgered him into eating in the main dining room. He should have refused to accompany him, remained in his room and ate later in the kitchen. But no, he hadn't. Would he ever learn?

The mud pit was actually a sunken concrete tub for soaking and massages, clear skin. Clay went in face first and was completely submerged.

Vic pulled up short with a curse. That wasn't supposed to happen. He was in the process of jumping into the pit when Clay surfaced, spit out mud and turned over onto his back. He sought the built-in seat, perched uncomfortably while Vic twisted awkwardly to avoid landing in the mud with him.

"Toss me a towel, will ya?" He taunted Vic with a smirk, mud dripping from bangs hanging in his eyes. "Come on, be a pal." He wiped mud from his face with a muddy hand. "You know, for once."

Vic managed to land, if without grace, on the other side of the pit. His relief that Clay was conscious and apparently suffering no ill effects from the fall, vanished with Clay's glib attitude.

"Fuck. You." Vic ground out, pivoted smartly and strode from the room.

Clay chuckled. The mud was warm, smooth and the heat felt good on his sore muscles and aching hip, so he decided to just relax and see what the fuss was all about over mud baths. An attendant entered the room and promptly brought him warm, wet towels as well as clean, dry ones. She offered him refreshments, asked if he preferred a change in the music or wished the TV on, then proceeded to clean up the spilled water and dishes.

Cuddled in a comfy seat, surrounded by warmth, Clay fell asleep.

***000***

Betty relaxed into the depths of the comfortable leather chair, sipped her hot tea sweetened with honey and a splash of scotch, her feet soaking in warm, lemon scented bubbly water in preparation for a pedicure. It was still morning and she was already exhausted. She'd gotten little sleep, because the last twenty-four hours had gone and done her in.

The reason? Clay Spenser.

It was simply impossible to keep track of that boy! She'd tried, she truly had, to keep an eye on him! Why, the _very_ day of their arrival, she'd enlisted the help of the maids, waitresses, a waiter or two, the desk girls, when she'd failed to find him where he'd said he'd be - reading peacefully in the library. They had no problems reporting back to her what he'd been up to, they all found him very fine indeed and Vic was worthless. She felt a bit sneaky doing it, but she was entrusted with the boy's care and he wasn't going to come up lame on her watch! No sirree!

BAH! WAH! HA! Epic failure there, Betty ole girl!

She'd come to the conclusion that it was impossible to watch Clay. He bored easily, lost interest quickly and never stayed in one place. Read a book? Yeah, for half an hour. Watch a movie? Yeah, until he couldn't sit still. Skype with the girlfriend? Yeah, until the Wi-Fi slowed down. Take a nap? Yeah, until he couldn't fall asleep.

Yesterday - _yesterday_! - their first full day at the resort, she'd taken her eyes off him for two minutes and he'd taken a fall off a mountain bike and gone head first off a cliff! Then, at dinner, she'd gone to get dessert at the buffet and he'd fallen into a wrought-iron railing! And then…. _and then_ …this morning, she'd taken a moment to apply a touch of lipstick and he'd gone off to breakfast with Vic and ended up falling head first into a pit of mud!

Mmmmm...okay, so no, she was forced to admit, much to her consternation, Eric certainly hadn't exaggerated when he told her how hard it was to keep Clay hale and hearty, within your sight. She'd been the one to suggest to Eric, he arrange for the boy to have an opportunity to relax, rest and just take it easy without everyone hovering over him, texting him, calling him, dropping by his place, inviting him out….fetching him in helicopters that made the evening news...had brought up the idea of the spa. He'd laughed at her willingness to subject herself to 'watching Clay' voluntarily. Called her naïve, warned her taking care of Clay was _nothing_ like raising kids.

She sighed, sloshed her feet in the water.

Good Lord, when she got her hands on her color-the-truth-don't-tell-the-whole-story-husband, she was going to wring his bloody neck! She hated it when he was right! He'd neglected to inform her while telling her numerous stories about life with Clay, that the boy never stayed still, never remained where you put him, was never found where you left him!

She always thought, with bemusement of course, that Eric exaggerated and embellished the stories for her entertainment. But now, _now_ she knew, he made light of the situation, the circumstance. No wonder he called her three times a day.

"Elizabeth?" Her mother bellowed. "Where are those boys? The news just said we are in the middle of a hurricane!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Laura!  
> I've had family in town, Fall weather makes me want to sit outside and read...but they've returned to filming and I'm getting back in the mood to write.

"Clay?" Betty knocked softly on his door. "Hey, you in there?" She knocked again, a bit louder, a tad longer, waited. "Clay?"

Tousled-headed, sleepy-eyed and yawning, Clay opened the door in response to her gentle, yet persistent knocking. He pushed his mop of hair off his forehead, laid his cheek against the edge of the door, eyes red and puffy, at half mast.

"Hey." He greeted huskily. He thought maybe if he let go of the door, he'd fall down, so he slumped against it in a way that looked like he wasn't using it as support. He took a deep breath, held it, blew it out, repeated until he no longer felt like the room was rotating.

"Sorry, were you sleeping?" She entered the room when he stepped back to allow her entry. "Do you know where Vic might be? He's not in his room. I tried his cell, but went straight to voice mail."

Still holding the door handle, Clay held his bangs out of his eyes with a sweaty palm. He still had a headache and was somewhat befuddled from disrupted sleep.

Vic who?

Finally letting go of the door, he yawned, slapped his cheeks. Oh, right.

That Vic.

Why would Betty care where the hell Vic was? Clay sure didn't.

Betty blinked at Clay's haggard appearance. Chubby-cheeked, he squinted against the light as if it were too bright.

It wasn't.

"Clay?" She frowned when he shielded his eyes, lowered his head.

"What?" He glanced up, dropped his hand. "Oh. Uh, just a headache." That had been relentless since he'd woken up from his nap in the mud. Damn, it was worse now than it had been at breakfast.

Vic might be an ass and a royal pain, but he would not ignore a call from his Commander's wife. He crossed the room, lifted a duffel onto the bed, dug through it, retrieved his sat phone, sent Vic a text, called his phone…..nothing. No response, no answer.

"Sat phone?" She questioned. "Would Vic have one?"

"No." He answered shortly, sighed when he realized he'd taken her head off with his tone. "Aah, sorry."

"You have a cell." She pointed out, doubted he would have let the battery die. She knew Clay always carried a sat phone. And a GPS tracker. And wore Navy issued dog tags.

"Uh, yeah." He waved a hand in the direction of the dresser, where his cell sat in a bowl of crystal cat litter. "It…uh, took a bath." The maid had brought him a bowl of cat litter to dry it out while he'd showered in the public showers. She'd then taken his clothes to be taken to the laundry, though there was little doubt they'd ever be wearable again and he'd returned to his room in a fluffy robe.

"Were you asleep?" She glanced out the window as rain slashed the pane hard enough, it was easily heard. "Have you taken some aspirin?"

"What? Asp….oh…uh…yeah…a couple." He walked over to the window. "He uh, went into town with a couple of the guys from….uh…the kitchen?" He had no idea who Vic had gone with. Or where they'd gone, for that matter. No, wait, yes he did. "Uh, no….grass….um, lawn. Rain, and all, you know." He paused. "Movies, I think."

"The news is saying the storm is now a category two hurricane." She explained. "Eric called to check in. I was able to tell him you were in your room, but I couldn't find Vic. He wants you both here."

Clay pulled the curtain aside. Hurricane? What hurricane? Here? In the mountains of North Carolina? Since when? He could see it, were they anywhere near the beach….wait, had Vic also ignored a call from Blackburn? What time was it anyway?

"There's flooding in town, more is expected and residents are being urged to shelter in place. Do you think he'd find somewhere safe to stay?"

Doubtful. He'd try and return to the resort because his orders had been to accompany and keep an eye on Clay for the duration of the seven day stay.

"I'll head out." Clay said, popping three extra-strength Excedrin with water. "Cell's might be down in town, due to the storm."

Betty hesitated. Clay's track record of going missing and acquiring injury was well known to her, though she was aware, he didn't know she knew that. Hell, the last twenty-four hours had proven it to her.

"I don't think…" She began. "I'm sure he's on his way back."

This 'trip' had been arranged to give Clay the opportunity to rest and relax and recuperate and she didn't think treks about town and/or the countryside during a category two hurricane that had the potential to turn life-threatening, fit any of those categories.

"No worries." Clay assured her. "What's the latest news?"

"Heavy rain for the next 16 to 18 hours. The front has stalled. We are safe here from flooding and high winds, but I'm not familiar with the area." She saw his look, blushed and admitted with a nod of her head, that no, she had never been here before and this trip had not been for her and her mother. "We can discuss it later." She waved it off.

He let it go. "I'll ask around with the staff, see if they've heard from the others." He assured her. "They went to the movies. Don't worry." He smiled at Betty. "He's trained for worse conditions than a simple hurricane. If no one has heard from anyone, I'll go after him." He tried Vic's phone again, but the call went straight to voicemail and texts weren't returned.

Betty nodded, squeezed his bicep, took her leave. She went directly to her room and called Eric – landlines still connected – who advised her to let Clay do what he thought best.

She did, but she didn't like it.

***000***

Vic kicked the flat tire on the borrowed car in disgust. Oh yes, there was indeed a spare, but there was no lug wrench or jack. What he got for not knowing the car, trusting who was driving and not ensuring the car was 'good to go'.

Ray was going to light him up, he heard about this blunder.

The rain was hard, heavy and fast. He was blinded by the driving rain and blowing winds. Though it was nowhere near the time darkness would fall, it was too dark to see clearly. His flashlight was not sufficient to cut the darkness and the occasional flashes of lightning revealed it wouldn't be safe to walk with the danger of falling tree or tree limbs.

He guess-timated, he was closer to the resort than town, but the walk to town would be safer than the one to the resort. The radio blared weather alerts, warned everyone to get off the streets, stay inside, avoid roads and to turn around, don't drown.

Flooding was the issue. Well, that and falling trees. He could see water in ditches, along the roadside, on the berm of the exit ramp. It wouldn't be long before the road to the resort would be under water and it didn't take much water at all, to sweep a vehicle into waters that could be dangerous.

"Fuck you Spenser, this is all your fault." Vic seethed, getting back into the car. He slammed the door, wiped water from his face with a wet hand.

If it hadn't been for Ray advising him to keep an eye on Clay, take care of the ladies and not let anything happen to anyone, he would have just stayed in town. He'd been offered the couch of someone's apartment, but oh no…..he'd chosen to be heroic and return to make sure all was well at the resort.

Because that would be what Jason would expect him to do.

"Sonofabitch." His cell was charged, but received no signal. He couldn't call out or send texts. His data was on, but there was no service.

Apparently, no one was coming to or leaving the resort, because he hadn't seen any other traffic. Most likely, he reasoned, everyone was smart enough to do what the resort's employees had done…..stay put.

But not him. Oh no. Nope. Here he was. Out where he shouldn't be. Eh, well, he knew how to swim and he was accustomed to operating in the dark. Nothing to do, but go forward…even if he had to walk.

His luck, Clay would set out in search of him, something would happen to Dennis the Menace and he'd be blamed for it. He'd best get back before that happened.

Lightning flashed and he squinted out the passenger side window, convinced he'd seen a shadow. Great, just great. Just what he needed, a bear deciding he'd be a good snack.

Pulling his gun from the back of his jeans, he flicked off the safety, got out of the car.

"Who's there?" He shouted. "Step into the lights and identify yourself!" He stayed behind the open door, crouched down for safety. Was that a light? "I'm armed, I will shoot! Now step into the lights, put your hands up and identify yourself!"

Lightning flashed, wind gusted, thunder rumbled, the shadow loomed…..Vic fired.

()()()

Clay was soaked by the time he walked to the car from the kitchen. He wore a black raincoat that billowed in the wind and it took more than a moment of batting and clutching, to corral it so he could shut the car door.

If he found Vic, comfy and cozy, in the bed of some bimbo in town, the man would need a dentist.

The Yukon handled well on wet roads and easily navigated puddles of water that were deeper than he probably should have driven through, but the storm was wreaking havoc on his ability to judge distance, focus his eyes and the puddles when he finally saw them, didn't look all that deep. The almost, but not quite darkness, during the afternoon gave him vertigo….uh, so this was how Metal felt – yeah, not a good feeling.

His headache was still there, but with his mind focused on making sure his teammate was okay, he was able to temporarily conquer it into submission. Still, the world tilted and rotated sickeningly and staying between the lines on the road that blurred and wavered, took concentration that taxed his already limited ability to focus.

He wished he felt better. His skin was crawling over the thought of driving into the storm, destination unknown, in the afternoon that was as dark as night and leaving the ladies behind to ride out the storm until he could return. He scratched at his neck, felt a flush of warmth spread down his back. His mouth was thick and even with his lips closed, teeth clenched, he drooled. He swallowed but the saliva stuck in his throat. He tried again, coughed….ugh….all he needed was a cold in the summer. Sonny would never let him live it down.

Rubbing his throat, he wiped his mouth on his shoulder, encountered wet plastic, used his hand. He mentally reviewed the contents of his first aid kit, couldn't decide whether or not he had any Day or Nyquil with him. Maybe he could buy some in town while he looked for the movie theatre. Any corner drugstore would have it and the town couldn't be that big...mountain towns were not cities.

He followed the main road, detours on side roads were unreliable and dangerous in a storm like this. He had to go around a fallen tree and swerve numerous times to avoid debris, but the road was passable….until it wasn't.

He pulled the SUV to the side of the road, well away from the danger of falling trees, shut it down. Armed with a strong flashlight, he got out to survey the body of water where a body of water shouldn't be.

Even he could tell he couldn't drive through it. Driving around it wasn't an option either, but he could walk around it. He guessed he was two or so miles from town, he would walk in, find Vic, return to the SUV, which was safe from immediate flooding and get back to the resort.

He walked the perimeter of the water. Based on the forecast from the radio, he calculated the rate which the rain fell, how much was falling, how fast the water could rise, how soon it would reach the SUV, decided he needed to be back within an hour because while the SUV might not be in danger of flooding, some of the 'puddles' he'd driven through, would be impassable on the drive back.

He set out, and as he walked, the thunder grew more distant, the wind wasn't as strong, and despite the cold rain, the air was humid, muggy and he felt warm…all over. It didn't occur to him, he wasn't staggering because of the wind, but because he couldn't hear.

Twin beams of light cut through the darkness. Wasn't bright, but was steady. Wasn't lightning. He slowed, squinted…..headlights? He waited for the next flash of lightning, yup, a car headed in his direction but parked, and as far as he could tell, not running, was revealed on the exit ramp.

He changed direction to his left, started forward.

Was that a roar? He heard a roar. Thought he did. He knocked his head against the heel of his hand above his right ear, but the action failed to clear his hearing. It was ringing. Everything was muted, sounded far away. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The rain eased, the trees stuttered, the running water slowed….nothing was right…..

He altered his approach so that he was on the passenger side, swung his flashlight in a wide arc….what was that roar? That was a roar.

***000***

Vic unlocked the door to Clay's room, kicked it open. He supported the majority of Clay's weight, who limped heavily, arm slung around his neck.

"I can't believe you shot me." Clay let go of Vic, fell palms first on to his bed, slowly turned around, sat down, stretched his leg out.

"I didn't fucking shoot you." Though he damn well had.

"Is there a bullet in my thigh?"

"No!" Vic huffed. "Maybe. Hell, I don't know. We should get the doc."

"You know how to take care of a gunshot wound." Clay had no intentions whatsoever of letting Betty find out he'd been shot in the thigh by Vic. "You'll do a better job than that quack ass." Trent would have a fucking fit, Clay went and allowed that ancient relic from yesteryears way of medicine treat his bullet wound.

"I didn't know it was you." Vic repeated for the umpteenth time. "Thought it was a bear."

"A bear?" Clay hissed dubiously. "In this weather? Seriously? You can't be serious. Do I look like a bear? I don't in any way resemble, a fucking bear." He tried to toe his boots off, but they were laced too tight.

"Small one." Vic muttered. "And you did, that rain coat blowing in the wind and all. Get your jeans off, let me see." He went into the bathroom, came out with towels.

"Bears don't carry flashlights."

"I yelled at you to identify yourself, warned I would shoot."

"Blow the fucking horn." Clay reached for the button on his jeans, didn't mention he hadn't heard Vic shout at him.

"The hell were you doing out there anyway?"

"Betty wanted you here." Why was Vic talking in slow-motion? Garbled like Charlie Brown's teacher? Now was not the time to be an ass. "I've got it, you can go.

"Yeah, see…no." Vic shook his head. "You just said you didn't want the doc and I **_do_** know how to take care of gunshot wounds." He moved around the room, turning on every light. "Besides, I'd like to have kids someday and Trent knows ways to prevent that from happening….so…..no." He came out of the bathroom with hot water in the ice bucket. "You're stuck with me."

"Call Betty, tell her you're back, you're fine, taking a hot shower, we'll meet her for dinner at seven." He panted, gasped.

"What? Oh, hell no. You aren't leaving this room." Vic studied him, not liking Clay's erratic breathing.

"Since when, do you get out of a car, firing your gun?" Clay hadn't cried out in pain, hadn't collapsed and Vic had hoped maybe he'd missed him...yeah, no such luck. "You know the shit you'd be in, you'd shot some dumbass?"

Yeah, he knew. It was the kind of mistake that Blackburn couldn't bury. He'd've been arrested, if charges had been levied, there would have been a trial, if he'd managed to avoid jail, his career would have been over.

"Look it up, there's been reports of bears in town."

"Don't doubt it." Clay blew his breath out, hands clenching the mattress either side of his hips. "Take away their habitat and they go hungry." Ow, sonofabitch. "OW." He lifted his heel from the floor hissed, jiggled his leg, groaned.

"That hurt?" Vic asked. Clay nodded, bottom lip sucked in, trapped between his teeth. "Then don't do it." He slapped Clay across his knee. "Put your damn foot down."

Clay broke his death grip on the sheets to flip him off.

Vic had complied with his request to return to the SUV, Clay limping heavily and accepting Vic's offer to lend a hand. He'd been wet, dirty, tired and sore, from being, well….you know…..shot by the time he'd collapsed in the passenger seat. He'd allowed Vic to cut his jeans open with a knife, poke and prod in search of the bullet, but the worsening weather had made him insist on simply applying a bandage from the car manufacturer issued first-aid kit and getting back to the resort as quickly as possible.

"Move. You're gonna let me see whether you want to or not." Vic told him. "Can't leave you like this."

He expected Clay to give him attitude and trouble, but he simply laid back on the bed at Vic's order, popped the buttons on his Levi's, wiggled and shimmied his jeans off his hips.

"Raise your knee." Vic said. "Put your foot on the mattress….left foot….." Clay tried, but was hampered by wet jeans he'd left at his knees. Vic tried to help him get them off completely, but first he had to take the time to pick the laces loose on Clay's hiking boots and remove them. "You good? Okay?" He didn't know why Clay was being so amendable, but he wasn't about to question it. That always led to a verbal fight between them.

"Just...a flesh wound." Clay panted, swallowed. "Went through."

"You know that, how?"

"Not the first time I've been winged."

Vic scoffed, dander going up. "Winged?" He snorted. "I may not have your 'sniper abilities', but trust me, I hit what I aim for."

"Yeah." Clay snorted derisively. "And if I'd'a been a bear, you wudda been his meal."

"Fuck you." He sliced the hastily applied bandaging with a quick flick of his wrist, tugged the bloodied wads of gauze free, tossed all aside. "First aid kit?" He didn't doubt Clay had one, after all, Trent was their medic. Clay pointed to the top dresser drawer. "You felt for the bullet in the car on the ride back here, didn't you?"

"You shot me, you dumb ass." Clay retorted, ignored the accusation that was accurate.

"Stay still." He removed the kit, donned a pair of rubber gloves, took the shade off the lamp on the desk, moved it closer. "You're right." He said a moment later, thumbs over the entry and exit wound. "In and out, not even deep." Had to be uncomfortable though and he felt a moment of remorse that he was the cause of Clay's obvious pain. "I'm gonna clean it….glue…." He pawed through the kit. "No Dermabond?"

"Allergic." Clay came on up on his elbows. Though he trusted Vic with not only his life, but his teammates as well, he didn't like being flat on his back and vulnerable in front of anyone. "Steri-strips?"

"Skin's cold, you're gonna want a shower…..doubt they'll stick."

Clay licked his lip. Trent would be able to make them stick. His supply of steri-strips was not-over-the counter from Wal-greens, but he didn't offer up that information.

"Staple it then." Clay could clean and close both wounds if he had to, but he didn't because Vic had both the knowledge and ability to do it as well and he was just so tired...

"You want anything? What you got in here? Morphine? You want a hit?"

"Liquid gels caps should do."

"Doubt it."

"I need something stronger, I'll take it." Clay bit out, dug through the kit, tossed a package at Vic. "Use this."

"Styptic powder? I don't have that in my kit." He paused. "Don't have a stapler either. Hell, man."

"Just finish and get out. I want a hot shower and my bed with you nowhere near me."

"Gratitude dude. Show some."

"You shot me."

"How long you gonna throw that in my face?"

"Until you finish and get out."

"Right then. Don't expect me to be gentle."

"And don't tell Betty."

"Don't want her mother-henning you to death?"

"You **_do_** remember **_who_** her husband is, **_right_**?"

Vic nodded. He didn't think the gunshot wound was all that bad, saw no need really, to even report it. But this was goody-two-shoes Clay-fucking-Spenser and he'd damn well tell on Vic.

Clay remained silent and still while Vic checked both wounds for debris, dirt or threads from his jeans, cleaned both thoroughly first with hot water, then saline water, then hydrogen peroxide. He patted both dry, applied the styptic powder, removed the access and any remaining blood, set three stables in each wound and squirted antiseptic gel on both.

"Need me to wrap it?" Vic asked, pulled the gloves off, balled them up and tossed them in the trash can. "I'll wait until you shower." He cleaned up empty packages, wrappers, used gauze and bandages, tossed it all.

"Nah, I'm good." Clay really wanted a shower, some pain pills and bed. His legs ached from his hips to his knees. His right, from the aggravated bruise on his kidney from hitting the railing and tumbling off the bike, his left, from you know, two holes in his skin.

"Need me, call." Vic said seriously. "I'll check on you before dinner, take a look. Don't want an infection, but I cleaned it thoroughly, so you should be good."

Clay sat up. He was able to raise his right foot, pull his sock off, but his left leg wouldn't bend the way he wanted it to, nor could he bend over and reach down. After three aborted attempts, heavy panting and a couple of hisses, Vic squatted down, took the sock off for him.

"Stay off the leg." Vic advised. He repacked the first aid kit, returned it to the drawer, glanced at Clay when a knock sounded on the door. "Who the...?"

"Clay? Vic?" Betty knocked again. "You both in there?"

"You didn't call her?" Clay whispered furiously.

"Did you see me call her?" Vic shot back.

"Hide the trash." Clay hissed as he limped to the bathroom, donned the robe, tied the belt securely. He smoothed the bed, waited for Vic to hide the trash can under the desk, completely out of sight, then opened the door.

"Hey Betty, Mrs. Bonsky. Just ready to take a shower."

"Good idea." She agreed, eyes lingering on his face. "You look peaked, you should warm up."

Vic tossed bloody towels over his shoulder, kicked them under the bed. "Warm up?" He scoffed. "It's like, a hundred percent humidity out there! It's fueling the storm….oooffphhh." He doubled over from an elbow in his gut. "The hell was that for?" He gasped, stumbled a step back. "The fuck, Spense, Jesus!"

_WHAP!_

Stunned, Vic's palm flew to his red cheek. What the _hell_ had just hit him?

Armed with a rubber-soled pink fuzzy slipper clutched in her right hand, Mrs. Bonsky exclaimed. "Stop this nonsense immediately!" She raised her hand for a second slap, but Vic wisely stepped out of reach. "What ails you, leaving the safety of this spa, going into town with people you don't know? Making your friend here come after you?" She raised a hand when Vic opened his mouth. "Bah-bat-but! One more word out of you and I'll whack your behind!"

Betty rubbed her forehead wearily. Vic was quite hard to like.

"I warned you about your language." Mrs. Bonsky continued. "Put you over my knee, tan your hide but good! Someone should do it. Elizabeth! What ails your husband?"

"I'm glad you both made it back safely." Betty told Clay. "Cell's are still down, but landlines get through. I'll let Eric know you're both here."

"You need the sat phone, let me know." Clay offered, hands fisted in the pockets of the robe to hide the fact they were shaking.

Betty nodded, not taking her eyes off Clay. "Thank you. Come Mom, let Clay get his shower and Vic needs to change, clean up. We'll see you both at dinner." She said pointedly, waited until they both nodded.

Vic left with the ladies to return to his own room and Clay limped into the bathroom. Each step jarred his aching back, sore hip, hurting leg. He couldn't even gimp properly, unable to decide which leg to baby.

Once in the bathroom, he dropped the robe, shed his shirt, sat down on the tub side to remove his boxer briefs which didn't come off as easily as the shirt had. Finally shed of all articles of clothing, he turned the faucet on, adjusted the temperature, swung his legs around so they were inside the tub, stood up, drew the curtain and pulled the lever to allow the water to come through the shower head.

Hair washed and rinsed, he scrubbed with the bar of soap, careful of the staples in his leg, until he deemed himself clean. He shut the water off, sat down on the tub side again to get out. He was tired, exhausted from the simple act of rubbing soap over skin, so he sat for a bit, face buried in a towel.

How the hell was he going to hide from the team? Could he?

He swung his legs around, placed both feet on the floor, stood up to dry off. Huh, water must have been too hot – he hadn't noticed it, chilled from the rain that was cold despite the high humidity – because his skin was all red.

He frowned, well, not all his skin. Mostly his arms, neck, chest. He turned his back to the mirror, hunched a shoulder. And the back of his shoulders…and….yeah, his lower back. Odd.

Eh, whatever. H was too tired to figure it out.

He finished drying off, applied more antiseptic gel to both sets of staples, taped a wad of gauze over both, wrapped a compression bandage around his thigh, collapsed in bed. He intended to sleep until he had to get up to join the ladies for supper.

***000***

Clay was miserable. He was unable to hear the conversation, understand what anyone was saying at the dinner table. He wasn't even hungry, his head pounded sickly, his leg throbbed and oh yeah, he ached all over. He'd been itchy since he'd been shot and what meds he had with him, didn't take the edge off. He didn't itch bad enough he wanted or needed to scratch, but the hot, prickly feeling made him short-tempered and uncomfortable.

So yeah, he was irritable and cranky.

He hadn't slept well, unable to find a comfortable position. Laying on his back, made it ache right where girls liked to get a tramp-stamp. He couldn't lay on either side – sore hip, bad leg – so that left him on his belly and while that was an acceptable position, the gunshot wounds in his thigh burned if he laid still too long.

"Don't like salmon?" Betty asked, spearing a snow pea with her fork. Not her favorite vegetable, but better than endive.

"Huh?" He blinked, cheek supported by his cupped hand. "Oh." He glanced down at his mostly untouched plate. "Uh, no. Not for breakfast."

Puzzled, Betty said, "We're eating dinner."

"What's'it matter?" Was he slurring? He was slurring.

"For pity's sake Elizabeth, leave the boy alone. So he doesn't like fish."

He did like fish, he was just too exhausted to eat it. Well, that and the thought of swallowing anything made him want to vomit.

He swallowed hard, pushed his damp bangs off his sticky forehead. Someone should really check the a/c, it wasn't working properly.

"So Vic, any word on the car you left?" Betty sipped her mineral water. "The others remained in town, did they not? Called their boss?"

"Oh. No, no problems…..thank you?" He slid a glance at Clay, who, rosy-cheeked and quiet, merely grunted. "It was just rain."

She gave him a look "You should watch the news." She picked up a slice of lemon, squeezed the juice in the glass, stirred with a stir stick.

"Uh….no need?" Uncertain, he posed his response as a question. "Vacation, you know."

"Here now," Mrs. Bonsky tsked. "Can't you carry on a decent conversation?"

"Yet, you decided to return?" Betty continued mildly

"Sorry, um, ma'am?" Vic addressed Mrs. Bonsky first. "Uh, yeah, I….see….Jason said….I mean….uhm, not a good idea…to leave, eh, Clay alone for too long."

Betty shook her head, try as she might, she simply could not warm up to this young man.

"He wasn't alone and he was perfectly safe here." She commented calmly, tone slightly telling. "He was in more danger setting out after you."

"He didn't need to. I was okay and can take care of myself."

"I couldn't tell Eric where you were."

"Didn't know I needed to tell you my daily plans."

"Only if you leave the premises."

Vic's looked darkened, his eyebrows narrowed and he bit his tongue to stop a snappy retort. He wasn't the one who required a babysitter.

Her messaged delivered, Betty turned her attention back to Clay.

"Clay?" She said for the third time, her voice raised a bit in an attempt to get his attention. "Clay?"

"What?" He snapped, lifted his head, blinked. "Uh, sorry?"

"Think you need a nap." Mrs. Bonsky muttered.

Clay scowled, lip curled in annoyance. "I just had one."

"Then you need another one so you can get up again, find the right side of the bed this time." She muttered.

"Are we done?" He pushed back from the table, removed his napkin from his lap, stood up and promptly hit the floor in a dead faint.

The lights went out, stayed off.

Betty sighed.  
Vic cursed.  
Mrs. Bonsky continued to eat.

"Now look at what you've done." Mrs. Bonsky put her fork down, pointed a finger at Vic, waggled it in his face. "Must you always cause trouble?"

"Me? ME?" Vic protested. "I didn't do anything?" He'd watched Clay rise unsteadily to his feet, saw him sway, reach for the chair or table to balance himself…had not at all, expected him to hit the floor in a dead faint.

Betty massaged her temples. What the hell had she missed?


	4. Chapter 4

"Special. Warfare. Operator. Lopez."

He looked over at Betty, belatedly wiping the scowl from his face. "What?"

"Don't scowl at me." She chided. "I wasn't going to say anything, but then I didn't expect Clay to collapse at my feet. Did you suffer an unfortunate encounter with a door?"

He flushed. He couldn't very well say his encounter had been with Clay's fist, so he pasted what passed as a smile on his face, nodded.

"Slipped in some spilled water."

"Mmmm." She drummed her fingertips repeatedly on the table. "And did you apply ice on those split lips we've ignored all during dinner?"

"Sure." He blew her off. She stared him down, one eyebrow arched, waited. He fume, not used to being dressed down – silently, mind you – by his team's commander's wife. He didn't like it and he didn't feel that he should have to tolerate it. "Uh….yes, um, ma'am?"

"I see now, why you decided to spend the day elsewhere."

"I had plans before…." Vic stopped, scowled. "...I hit a door."

"Elizabeth! Do something!" Mrs. Bonsky hissed. "He's causing a scene!" She hid her face in her napkin. "Everyone is staring!"

"What would you have me do Mom? Toss a tablecloth over him?"

"Oh, I don't know! Get the doctor perhaps? Have him removed? You!" She pointed at Vic. "You're a soldier, carry him out of here." She flapped her napkin at the gawking on-lookers. "You all! Be gone! At your age, surely you've seen someone fall before."

"He didn't fall, he fainted." Someone replied.

"Not no one looking like him." Said someone else. "Him being so fit and all."

"Sailor." Vic corrected, withered under Betty's incredulous look that clearly and plainly said – _Are you serious? Like what you are matters right **now**!?_

Not enough scotch in her suitcase. Teeth gritted, Betty managed to utter, "Do we need the doctor?"

Vic thought of Clay's first aid kit, shook his head. "He's, uh...fine. I've got him."

Betty remained uncertain whether or not to trust him.

"Could he not faint in the privacy of his room?" Mrs. Bonsky bemoaned, extended a foot, was just able to nudge Clay along his shin, near his knee. "Must you embarrass me? Get up! Get up, I say. Get off the floor immediately! Everyone is looking at me!"

Vic gaped, though: _You? YOU? Listen, you old bat…..wait, the hell was she doing?_

"Move your damn foot!" Alarmed, his tone was sharp, made Betty give him yet another hard look. He was beginning to realize she wasn't the scatter-brained female she'd led him to believe she was. "I mean nudging him like that, isn't gonna wake him up."

_If you nudge too hard or manage to nudge a bit higher, he's gonna feel it, 'cause he has two holes and six metal staples in his skin, which are probably puffy, inflamed and sore._

"Then what will?" Mrs. Bonsky demanded. "Elizabeth, get the doctor. Where are the lights? Is there no generator in this place? Why are you both just standing there, staring at one another?" She banged her fork on the table. "Someone **_do _**something!"

"Uh," Vic hesitated. "I'll go with you _._ " He told Betty _._ "Get the doc?" He added at her confused look.

"You just said he didn't require the doctor's assistance." Betty stood up. "Make up your mind." It wasn't a suggestion.

"Yeah, just," he hesitated. He'd expected the ladies to panic, flutter around, call for help, wring their hands, look at him to give orders…not act like this. "I'd rather see what kind of supplies he has now, rather than have to go later."

"Now that is just nonsense." Mrs. Bonsky waggled her fork about. "He is the doctor, he will know what he needs." She rolled her eyes, violently stabbed a slice of melon, pointed it at Betty. "Elite unit, you said?" She tore the fruit with her teeth, chomp-chomped. "We have a vastly different definition of the word 'elite'." She smirked. "Daughter."

"Supplies?" Betty questioned, ignored her mother. Vic winced, nope Blackburn's old lady wasn't dim-witted at all. "Supplies for what? Why would you need to go after supplies later?"

She reached for a napkin, held a glass of water. A manager had rallied the waitresses into moving the small crowd back from the table, anxiously asked what he could do, informed them he would send for the doctor if they wished, assured them the generator would soon kick on and provide limited power.

"People! Please!" He clapped his hands. "Remain back, give them some room."

Battery operated camp lanterns had appeared with employees, emergency lights winked over exit doors but the room remained dim.

"I don't trus….erhm…know him." Vic objected as Betty knelt beside Clay. What, dumping water in face wasn't good enough? Apparently not, all tender and care Mrs. Blackburn was gently patting his cheek, thumb making caressing circles, a thoughtful expression on her face.

Betty frowned at the heat her palm encountered. Damn beard and dim lights, she couldn't see if his cheeks were flushed.

"Oh, for the love of God." Mrs. Bonsky harrumphed. " _You_ don't need to trust him! He. Is. A. Doctor! Really Elizabeth? _This_ is the best Eric could do?"

Vic fumed as Clay eased completely onto his back, twisting his hips so slowly, Vic almost moved to help him.

Almost.

He only stopped from kneeling beside his fallen teammate because Betty cleared her throat, raised an eyebrow. Clay's hands moved from the floor, palms coming to rest on his belly. He was still for a moment, then drew his knees up.

"Clay?"

Once his feet were flat, he lowered his hand to his left thigh. It hovered in the air, then returned to rest next to its mate on his belly. Unsettled, he stretched his legs out. Drew them up. Knocked his knees together, pressed his thighs against one another, stretched back up, rested his heels on the floor.

Betty waved towards the door. "Go back to your room Mom. I'll get him settled." She dipped a corner of the napkin in the water, dabbed Clay's forehead and cheeks, frowned when he scowled, rolled his head out of her reach. "Hey there, hi. That's it, open your eyes. Clay? Can you open your eyes?"

"And how are you going to get him there?" Mrs. Bonsky demanded tartly.

Clay blinked, lashes fluttering. His half-opened eyes, closed with a grunt. It took him a moment and a couple misses, but he finally found his face with his hand, swiped a palm down his nose, over his mouth, the cold water and coarse cloth made his skin sting…..ow. He took a breath, eyes still closed, pushed the hand near his face away, lifted his head.

"Stawp." He squinted though there were no bright lights. "Shi..iitt." He licked his lips, tongue remaining trapped between his teeth as he tried to look around the room. "Wha…at?"

"No, don't sit up yet." Betty advised. "Take a minute." She could see he was in pain. He was blowing hard, tight lines around his mouth, skin around his eyes crinkled. She'd seen that look, knew those signs, had spent many a night with Eric, nursing him through some injury or another. "Stay."

Clay didn't pay her any attention, knees slightly bent, heels digging against the floor as his stomach muscles bunched in preparation of sitting up.

"Spenser, stay down." Vic ordered.

Clay again drew his legs up, pressed his knees together, let them splay, stretched them back out, drew his right ankle up to his left knee, then let his muscles go limp.

While the female voice was familiar, he couldn't place it. The male voice though, he knew that one and while he didn't take kindly to it telling him what to do, he obeyed it because trusting that voice meant life or death…and if he didn't, Jason wouldn't let him have hot water in his shower for a month – and he really, really liked hot showers.

And that right there, Vic thought with a smirk at Betty, is why you need me; _You can't handle him, Mrs. Lieutenant Commander._

Clay blinked rapidly, repeatedly; a desperate attempt to clear his vision, focus his eyes…a lame attempt to restore his hearing to normal because everything was muted. This thought process was: He didn't know where he was or what had happened, but knew he liked hot showers. Ruh-Roh.

"There you are, relax…." Betty set the cloth aside because it was obvious Clay didn't like the water against his face. "You with me?"

"Mmmm." He licked his lips, glazed eyes searching. For what, Betty wondered, or who? Vic? Or anyone he knew? "Hmmmm."

Betty waited, but other than Clay's obedience to Vic's command to stay down, he didn't respond.

"Help me." Vic motioned to two of the staff who had responded to the managers request for assistance. "He's heavier than he looks, I've got his feet, he kicks." He squatted down. "Cradle carry, just _be careful_. Mrs. Bonsky, would you lead the way, open his door for us?"

Vic decided to take control because it was obvious, even if Vic allowed him to, Clay wasn't going to get up on his own.

"Why? Does he bite?" One of the men who knelt to give Clay assistance joked. His amusement faded when Clay tensed, went rigid, curled his fingers into tight fists. "Wait….he…does?"

Vic sighed, he'd been hoping Clay would let people he didn't know help Vic get him upstairs, but that wasn't going to happen. He knew what to expect next if he allowed the men to try and pick Clay up, so he motioned for them to back away.

"Not usually." Vic tapped Clay's cheek until the blonde blinked and kept his eyes opened. "Just me Clay, okay? Relax, I'm right here." He waited. "Look at me. You know me?" Clay nodded. "Yeah? Okay, good, that's good." He waited, reached out to force Clay to uncurl his right hand. "You good now?" He wasn't. "I'm right here, just listen to my voice, focus on me."

He'd heard the team joke and tease about Clay's responses and reactions to people he either didn't know or knew but didn't recognize. He'd been coached by Ray to always obey Trent when it came to injury, illness or reaction. He'd learned the 'odd' team rules. And he'd been with the team long enough to know they didn't 'F' around, so yeah, he was going to take Ray's lectures seriously. He knew what Clay was capable of, his abilities and talents and he didn't need an…uh…altercation.

Not here. Not now.

Mrs. Bonsky watched Vic work with Clay, held her tongue – for the moment.

"Then you're going to have to walk." Vic was saying when Clay flinched and tensed to avoid anyone's touch. "I can't carry you by myself, 'less I sling you over my shoulder and Quinn says you'll puke, I do that." And he wasn't even sure Clay would tolerate Vic trying to pick him up.

"Nhh'I'mma'k." Clay slurred, shoved his wet bangs off his forehead with a sweaty palm. "Is't hot? N'ime hot."

"Yeah, it's hot. Powers out, no a/c. Wanna sit up? Easy, lift your head first." Vic cautioned. "You good?" Clay nodded, came up on his elbows. "Relax your fists, I'm right here. It's just me." The very last thing he wanted was Clay fighting him. It was obvious that Clay wasn't going to let anyone he didn't know anywhere near him, and even in his condition, he could do serious damage to anyone who approached him – Vic included.

"Vic?" Betty inquired. "Might be better, strangers stay away from him, don't you think?"

He nodded his agreement, thanked the men for their offer to help but said he'd handle getting his friend to his room on his own, since it appeared Clay would be able to walk with his assistance.

"Walk on his own, my ass!" Mrs. Bonsky turned on her daughter. "Anything you want to explain to me?" She asked calmly. "Elite unit huh? Who the hell are they Liz?"

Oohh, her childhood nickname. Not good.

"Eric's men."

"I get that." Her mother snapped. "However, I am neither stupid nor blind. You have never confided in me about Eric's job, his career, his service, other than he's in the Navy. I long ago accepted you tell me what you are able. I figured out all on my own, he's special ops or you wouldn't be so vague and tight-lipped. Are those two boys SEALs? The level of, we-led-the-mission-to-find-and-kill-America's-greatest-enemy SEALs?"

"Mom."

Vic coughed. Wow. He saw where Betty got her quick mind and ability to connect 'the' dots from.

Mrs. Bonsky waved her off. "Doesn't matter and I'm not prying. Just…..if that boy is trained to kill, I want more than my slipper to ward him off."

Betty smiled, laughed, gave her mother a hug. She knew her mother would never discuss anything she guessed or learned with anyone, nor would she bring up the subject again. "He would never hurt you."

Mrs. Bonsky nodded. "Well then, you have a doctor to find and apparently, I've been relegated to opening doors."

Betty kept her eyes on Vic who remained squatted next to Clay, resting his weight easily on his toes. He didn't lose his balance nor did he change position – and it wasn't an easy one to hold.

Clay was neither responding to Vic nor resisting him. Once the men who had offered to help had backed off, Clay had…well, not relaxed, but gone mostly limp. He allowed Vic to touch his hand, remain next to him, but he didn't really lie still, legs restless, heels digging, and he still hadn't obeyed Vic's request to un-fist his hands.

"Want some water?" Vic offered. Clay's eyes had remained open, somewhat fixed on one spot, so Vic felt it safe to allow him to sit up. "No? Okay, sit up…that's it." He helped Clay off his elbows, allowed him to draw his legs up, rest an arm on his bent knees. "Dizzy? Anything spinning?"

"Uh," try as he might, Clay could neither form a complete thought nor a sentence. "Hot." He swallowed hard, swallowed again. Hot and tingly, he hunched a shoulder, wiped drool off on his sleeve. He wanted to itch, yet couldn't decide where to itch….or why. Oddest damn feeling ever.

"What the hell happened, man?"

"….uh…..smell…of fish…." He turned his head, spat saliva, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "…got warm."

"Women _my_ age faint due to the heat." Mrs. Bonsky huffed. "Not boys…." Her eyes gleamed. "….like him."

"Mom!" Betty exclaimed. "He's young enough to be your grandson."

"Phsish….hardly." She harrumphed. "And, really Elizabeth, it's not really all that warm."

"Count of three, we're going up."

Betty didn't miss the way Clay rose awkwardly to his feet bearing little, if any, weight on his left leg. Saw him immediately lift his left foot from the floor, let Vic support him until he gained his balance and tested his weight with his left foot before nodding at Vic.

When they moved forward, she noticed he didn't know which leg to limp on, finally decide to favor his left. His gait was stilted, he would have fallen if Vic didn't have an arm around Clay's waist. He hissed with each step he took on his left foot, groaned when that leg bore his weight.

Hmmmm…she let it go as the men moved towards the door. She had a doctor to find.

"Here now, have a care." Mrs. Bonsky waddled her way in front of Vic. "Step aside, give way…move." She shooed and flapped with both hands. "Boy might have gone and hit his head, never know."

Exasperated, Vic assured her, "He didn't hit his head."

She stopped and turned. "Why is he limping?" She frowned down her nose in such a way, Vic's teeth were set on edge. "He's limping on his left leg."

"He's not limping." Vic scoffed, said a prayer he was convincing. "Geesch!"

"He hurt his right hip….what did you do to him now?"

Vic groaned. Hell, if the old woman picked up on that, there was no way her daughter hadn't. His ass was grass, he got home.

"Dunno, maybe his foot fell asleep or something." Vic lied. "He's good. Let him get some sleep, see how he feels when he wakes up."

He wanted privacy once he got Clay to his room, but that didn't happen. Mrs. Bonsky barged right in on his heels and had no intentions of leaving. By the time Vic let Clay collapse on his bed, both were sweating from the exertion and lack of a/c from the walk.

"Uh….thanks, Mrs. B…..Bonsky." Vic hastily corrected. "We're good, I got him."

"I'll wait right here until Elizabeth comes with the doctor."

"Bett….." He saw her face, quickly amended the words coming out of his mouth. Despite what Clay thought, he did know how to address his elders. "Mrs. Blackburn didn't need…."

"Oh." Mrs. Bonsky fluttered a hand in dismissal. "She wanted to see what ' _supplies_ ' he had." She gave him a smirk, entered the bathroom, filled a cup with water, dampened a wash cloth. "You should do what you can to cool him down." Clay was sprawled haphazardly on the bed, feet still on the floor, trying to catch his breath. "Here now, swing the poor boys' feet up onto the mattress. He can't possibly be comfortable." She set the cup on the nightstand, bent over, grabbed a foot, prepared to lift. "You can't leave him like that! You call that a job well done? Pfft."

Vic yelped, jumped forward, nudged her away from Clay with his hip. "I've got him."

Clay crawled into the middle of the bed, turned onto his back via his right hip, wormed his way up the bed just enough, he was able to prop up against the pillows Mrs. Bonsky piled up as Vic swung his feet onto the mattress.

"There now, isn't that better?" She beamed. "Comfy, right? Bet you feel better, don't you?"

Vic didn't know if Clay was compliant because he knew the woman or because she was a woman. Didn't matter, he just wanted her gone.

"You…step out…I can help him get undressed." Vic suggested, quietly said something to Clay, who was barefoot, the flip-flops he'd worn had been abandoned on the painful, slow walk to his room and were now in the possession of Mrs. Bonsky, helped him out of his shirt.

He side-eyed her, she still had them both in her hand….they would hurt a lot worse than her slipper, should she decide to schwack him with one.

"Pish-posh. All men possess the same anatomy." She approached the bed, flip-flops tucked under one arm. "Here, I'll tug one leg, you get the other….just don't drag the poor boy off the bed, he looks done in." She folded the cloth, laid it on Clay's forehead, offered him the cup of water.

He took it, sipped, swallowed, sipped again.

Vic nodded, hoped to accomplish getting Clay's jeans off and under a sheet before Betty arrived with or without the doctor.

Yup. Nope. Didn't happen. Christ, could nothing go his way? Just one damn thing!?

The door opened and Betty entered, the doctor on her heels just as Vic whipped the sheet over Clay. He must have been on his way and she met him in the hall. Great.

"Ladies." The old man nodded towards the door. "I'm sure you understand my need to examine the patient with privacy."

"I'm not going anywhere." Betty stated firmly. "Every time I let him out of my sight, he has a new bump, bruise or limp."

"Ma'am, I'm going to need to undress him…."

"Three kids and a husband in the Navy. He doesn't have anything I haven't already seen." Betty didn't even bat an eye. "Please, by all means, carry on."

"Not very observant, are you?" Mrs. Bonsky accused. "He's already undressed."

"Really, Mrs. Blackburn," Vic began, shifted his weight in an attempt to block her view as the doctor tugged on the sheet. Didn't work. "He's good…I got him…you don't…you can go. I'm best….."

"Is that a bandage?" She pushed in between the doctor, who strongly objected her presence, and Vic, who squawked at her interference. She crossed her arms, tapped a toe. "Vic? Care to explain?"

"No."

"Fainted, you said?" The doctor mused. "Could be heat, I suppose. Lull in the storm brought extreme mugginess. He's sweaty, clammy…mmm."

"Do you _not_ see the _bandage_?" Betty demanded incredulously. "His entire thigh is wrapped! Are we going to ignore that? Vic?! Start talking."

Refreshed by the water and cold cloth, Clay spoke up, "Damn Lopez, that quack?"

"Kinda hard to avoid, you faint at the dinner table."

"Yeah, but….you…know….uh….I'm good." He swallowed, made a face at the foul taste on his tongue. "I think."

"I may be retired, but I know medicine." The doctor said briskly.

"What was your specialty?" Mrs. Bonsky asked.

"Pediatrics." He set about cutting the bandage loose. "Let's see what we got here."

Vic blew his breath out in relief. Pediatrics? The man was 80 if he was a day. He'd long forgotten med school and his residency. With the staples set in Clay's leg, he wouldn't recognize the gunshot wound.

And he didn't.

But Betty sure did.

"That's a gunshot." She raised horrified, accusing eyes to Vic. "HOW? WHEN? WHERE?" She stepped forward. "Did you do this!?" She poked his chest. "Did. You. Shoot. Him?"

"Now, now, don't go getting an upset." The doctor scolded. "Certainly not a gun shot. Don't worry yourself."

Amazed, Vic asked. "How could you possibly know that?" His eyes were wide in stunned disbelief, unable to wrap his head around her obvious knowledge. "You can't know that! You can't tell just by looking at staples!"

"I know a gunshot when I see one." She insisted. "I've treated them. Eric has come home with more than one over the years."

Mrs. Bonsky's head whipped around so quickly, she lost her balance and Vic had to steady her, to keep her on her feet. She didn't know what upset her more: that her son-in-law had been shot, obviously more than once, or that her daughter was so calm about it!

"That's not the same!" Vic scowled, ducked his head. A sure sign of guilt that Betty knew and recognized. "It's not!"

"The only time he was out of my sight long enough to get shot, is when he went after you." Betty threw her hands wide. "You shot him? What the hell's the matter with you?"

"I thought he was a bear….." Vic began.

"Out in this weather?"

"I shouted for him to stop, raise his hands, step into the headlights, he didn't."

"So you shot him?!"

"NO! I mean…I didn't know it was him! I yelled…."

"Do you _not_ hear the weather out there?"

Vic scowled. "It's just a flesh wound. Skimmed him is all. Not even deep enough to hit muscle."

"It's in and out. A bullet entered his body. You stapled both wounds closed. You didn't think that warranted a mention?"

"Honestly? No." Vic was close to losing his temper. "It's field medicine. We make do. He's fine."

"Does he look fine?" Betty shot back. "And he has access to medical care, field medicine is not required here."

"Pfft." Vic snorted. "Hands down, Trent is better than this quack."

Clay knew they were talking about him – arguing, rather, but he couldn't follow what anyone was saying, because they spoke too fast and he couldn't hear all the words. His vision was blurry and he didn't know the old man with cold hands who was waaaayyy too touchy-feely for comfort.

"Go slow doc," Vic warned when Clay shifted his weight away from the doctor. "He doesn't take well to strangers."

"Did you not bring a medical bag?" Mrs. Bonsky asked. "It's obvious the boy's running a fever."

"I was told a guest fainted. No one said he'd been shot."

"Oh, so now you believe he was shot?" Mrs. Bonsky sniffed. "Can you even treat a gunshot wound?"

Vic crossed the room, removed Clay's first aid kit from the top dresser drawer. "Don't make any sudden or threatening moves." He cautioned as Clay continued to squirm uneasily. "I can."

"You can, what? You said you had it handled." Betty said to Vic.

"I do." Vic said

"He doesn't." Mrs. Bonsky scoffed.

"You don't." Betty agreed.

"He does." Clay said.

"I will." The doctor said.

Silence.

"I must insist you all vacate the room and allow me to see to the patient." The doctor said. "I can't possibly work like this. There are too many people in this room."

"I'm not going anywhere." Vic stated. He didn't dare.

"Me either." Betty said firmly. "I may not know the details of my husband's missions or his job but I know how easily the team loses him. No, there are no sheikh's lurking in the hall and I don't see the building collapsing on him, but I'm not comfortable letting him out of my sight just yet."

"I'll stay." Vic said firmly. "You both can go." She knew about that? He bet she knew more of the story than he did. And didn't that just piss him off.

Betty knew she'd hit a nerve with the reveal she knew about the Sheikh. HA! Just wait until he found out Jason's teen-age daughter knew the entire story as well! He'd really have a fit!

"He's running a fever." She pointed out.

"When isn't he?" Vic countered.

She now understood why Jason had insisted on sending Vic with them. If hurt, sick or medicated and he felt threatened, Clay was hard - maybe impossible - to manage, handle.

"Any idea why Vic?" She smacked her palm against her forehead. "Oh right, he was shot!"

"I'll give him some ibuprofen." He cut her off when she began to object. "He has liquid Tylenol, he needs it."

"You should take his temperature."

"How?" Mrs. Bonsky asked. "With what? Dr. Doo-Little over there didn't bring his medical bag."

"Got it covered." Vic held up the first aid kit, smirked, made a grand-stand display of his actions to prove to her, he knew what it held and that he could 'handle' taking care of Bravo's rookie. Doctor not required.

He withdrew the temporal thermometer, waved it about theatrically, smirked.

"What is that?" Mrs. Bonsky demanded.

"You said you wanted his temperature taken."

" _That's_ a thermometer? Let me see it." She held her palm out, waggled her fingers. "Gimme."

Vic ignored her, approached the bed but Clay waved him away, turned his head. "I'm good."

"I've never seen such a thermometer before."

"Me either." The doctor said.

Betty sighed, rubbed her temples. Oh. Good. God.

"Lemme guess," Vic drawled sarcastically. "Glass and mercury? Huh? I'm right, aren't I?"

"In my day, yes. But even I upgraded to an ear thermometer once the grandkids came along. Now, what's wrong with the new no touch, point and press?" She pounced right back.

"New? They're like, 15 years old." Vic snorted. "Look Gra….."

"Your yakkin' is giving me a headache." Clay mumbled groggily. "Why you always gotta argue about everything with everyone?"

"Shut the fuck upppppYOW!" He whirled, hand flying to the back of his head. "The _HELL_ was that for?"

"I've asked you repeatedly not to use such language." Mrs. Bonsky brandished the leather flip-flop menacingly. "I've a mind to wash your mouth out with soap!"

"Ask? ASK? You've never asked!" Vic yelled. He'd forgotten all about the flip-flips. OW! "You ol…"

"LOPEZ!" Clay sat up, held his head, wiped his face with the sheet, then went limp against the pillows, face flushed.

" _WHAT_?!"

"Aren't you in enough trouble? You _really_ wanna add to it?"

"ME? What about HER?"

"What are you? Ten?"

"So now, you're gonna be all wide awake and coherent? What's up with that shit?" He extended a hand to ward off Mrs. Bonsky. "Lady, you whack me one more and time and I'll….."

_WHACK!_

Vid turned red, vein on his forehead and one in his throat protruding as he fought for control of his temper. He cupped his abused, smarting ear, chest heaving. Finally, jaw clenched, he dug a bottle of generic ibuprofen out of the kit, went to the bathroom for more water.

"Clay, the doctor wants to take a look at your leg." Betty said. "Check your pulse, your breathing. I need you to be okay with that."

Confused, wet, sticky and smelling like sweat, Clay managed to mumble, "….no…." He didn't mention the itchy flush or red skin, the thick throat, excessive saliva or the annoying desire to drool. "No…need…"

"He bruises easily, bleeds quickly, throw reactions to various medications." Betty was telling the doctor. "He can't take Naproxen, is allergic to adhesive glue…."

"Wait, wait, wait. Just wait. You know that how?" Vic demanded. Christ alive, no one told him anything and here was Betty Blackburn, rattling off Clay's medical history like she was part of the team.

Betty rolled her eyes, spared him an exasperated glance. "It's like you don't even stop to think." She said tartly. She turned back to the doctor. "Pay him no mind."

"I want to take his temperature." Mrs. Bonsky stated. "With this new fangled thing. How do I use it?" She stepped closer for a better look, picked it up from where it had been left on the mattress. "It doesn't look like any thermometer I've ever seen in my life."

"And that's a lotta years." Vic snarked.

"Lopez." Clay warned wearily.

"Hold, press this with your thumb, touch his forehead here, roll to your right, come down to his eye, let it sit a second or two, release. Be quick and be careful with it." Vic warned. "It's not a toy."

"What? This?" Mrs. Bonsky waved it about, holding it with finger and thumb. "Come and get it!"

"Yes, that." He snapped. "It cost $800.00 and unlike Trent, I can't write it off as lost in battle. They'll deduct it outta my next three paychecks."

"$800.00? Pfft. You really expect me to believe that?"

"I don't make a habit of lying."

"Vic's exaggerating." Clay said tiredly. "Not over $600.00." Christ, he felt like shit.

She pulled up short, slowly returned the thermometer to the mattress. "Why is it so expensive? You can get a good point and press one at the drugstore for $9.99."

"Trent doesn't trust their accuracy." Vic piped up.

"Piddle. That's just nonsense. Who is this Trent person?" She demanded. "We need to have a talk about expenses. Really Elizabeth, no wonder the military budget is so high!"

"Accuracy is important." The doctor agreed.

Betty picked the thermometer up. The hand Clay raised to hold his bangs off his forehead was shaking and he was sweating. "101.8"

"I'll make it three ibuprofens." Vic decided. "He's gonna stay in bed, take a shower maybe. Right Clay?"

"Huh?"

"No more than two." The doctor objected. "Has he taken anything today?"

"No." Vic lied.

"He took aspirin before he left to find you." Betty corrected. "And I'm damn sure you gave him something when you poked staples through his skin."

"Take a lukewarm shower, drink plenty of fluids, stay in bed." Mrs. Bonsky ordered. "Keep a cold, wet cloth on your head."

"He'll sleep." Vic huffed. "Time for everyone to go."

But Betty hadn't forgotten about Clay's leg and she wasn't about to let it go.

"No one is going anywhere." Betty said firmly. "The doctor is going to examine him, you are going to tell me why you shot him, explain why you cleaned him up and stapled him together and didn't bother to tell me and _then_ you are going to call my husband and tell him what you let happen."

"And he needs to drink." Mrs. Bonsky said. "Plenty of fluids. Don't want him dehydrating."

"Okay, that's it." Vic had had enough. "First, I didn't ask him to come after me. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself in any situation."

"You did not tell me you were leaving the grounds." Betty reminded him. "Eric called because of the news reports on the storm. I couldn't tell him where you were when you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Clay."

"Thought that was your job." Vic snarled. "And second, I didn't know it was him I was shooting."

"You make a habit of shooting random people?"

Vic ignored her sarcasm. "Third, I don't you any explanation for anything I did."

"Yes, you do."

"Yeah, see, that's where you're wrong. What I do, is no business of yours."

"Your job while on a military sanctioned mission is no business of mine." She corrected. "You were given orders to accompany us here and keep an eye on Clay. Bang up job there, Mr. Lopez." She ticked off with her fingers. "Thrown off a bike, rolled down a hill, pushed into a fence, knocked into a pit of mud and oh yeah, shot!"

"Why don't you ladies go check with the manager about the power." The doctor suggested.

"I'm not letting him out of my sight." Betty said firmly. "Vic can escort..."

"No." Vic cut her off. "Don't start with me. The answer is no. He might be okay with you, but he doesn't know the doctor and you aren't….you're not….he might…he could…."

Betty nodded. Right. She wasn't strong enough to handle Clay, should he lash out against the doctor. She didn't think he would, he wasn't medicated and his fever wasn't high enough to induce delirium, but Clay was groggy and not really responsive.

"Very well." She looked at her mother.

"Why do I have to go?" Mrs. Bonsky complained, but complied. "I'll be back."


	5. Chapter 5

"Thanks for coming doc, but I've got him." Vic said. "You can go."

Clay wanted no part of the doctor with the clammy hands. He'd allowed his temperature to be taken and now he wanted the ibuprofen and solitude. As usual, he didn't get his way.

_Go 'way, lemme 'lone. Why I never get what I want?_

"The doctor will remain and examine him" Betty spoke without parting her teeth. "Because. He. Fainted."

_I didn't faint, geesch! I lost my balance._

"He was hot."

_Yeah, that's right, it's hot. I'm hot….it's so fucking hot. Why'm'I so hot?_

"Because he's running a fever."

"He always does." Vic dismissed it.

_No, I don't!_

"People don't faint merely because they're hot."

"Apparently, he does."

_I do not!_

"You shot him."

_You did! He did! Ow!_

"Not the first time he's been shot, won't be the last."

_True._

"And has he always run a fever when he was shot?"

"Hell if I know."

_Trent would know._

"Then let the doctor do his job."

"He didn't even recognize what the thermometer was!"

"I most commonly used rectal ones." The doctor spoke up. Clay squeaked, hugged the sheet tight to his chest. "Nowadays, the one I use, goes in the ear."

_AACCKK!_

Betty sighed. Would this day ever end?

"You said there were no signs of infection…." She began, only to be interrupted.

"You can see for yourself." Vic sniped. "Any redness? Any puss? No? Right, 'cause like I said, there's no infection."

"…..then for what reason, would he run a fever?" She finished. "Six tiny staples in his skin, wouldn't be the cause."

"I cleaned both wounds thoroughly, I know how to do that, you know." Vic snapped crossly. "Better than him," he jerked a thumb in the doctor's direction. "Better than you." He made a smug face. "Yeah, I'm that good."

_Not that good, you ass. Not better than Trent. Or Brock. Not even Ray._

"Don't be too sure about that." She countered. "I've been with Eric nearly 30 years. I've seen it all."

He gave her a look, unsure how to respond to that. "He gives orders from a phone." He muttered finally. "No danger in that, now is there?"

"You think he always held the rank of Lieutenant Commander?"

"Here now, let me take a look." The doctor rubbed his hands together, picked up Clay's wrist, sought his pulse. "Looks a bit worn out, he does."

_Who the hell are you? Let go my hand._

"He's good, been through a bit is all." Vic acknowledged. "He took a hard hit to his kidney, our last job out. The flight home was long, he doesn't always fly well when he's hurt. Climbing a rope ladder into a hovering chopper isn't easy. Then yeah, he fell off the bike, down the hill, and into the fence."

"Pushed." He was corrected. "Into the fence."

"He slipped."

"And a pit of mud." He was pertly reminded.

He heaved an aggrieved sigh. "And a pit of mud."

"Pulse is a bit fast." The doctor announced. "Not unusual when a body is fighting a fever."

"Yeah, yeah. Really Doc, he's good."

_I will be, ya'll go away._

"There's a hurricane raging out there." The doctor said. "Not like you can simply take him to the nearest hospital."

"We're safe here." He and Clay had barely made it back and it was still raining hard, no one was going anywhere either on foot or by car - not even in Blackburn's fancy SUV. "No danger of flooding or trees falling."

"True, true." The man replied. "Just the danger of the wind tearing off the roof is all."

Vic glanced out the window. Huh. That was a very real possibility and it hadn't occurred to him. Was gonna be a long night.

_We lost the roof?_

Clay gave up trying to follow the conversation. He couldn't hear that well anyway.. His hearing appeared to come and go…..mostly go….and lacking one of his strongest senses, made him irritable and uncooperative.

"I assume the fever is a result of either the gunshot wound or the staples..." The doctor began.

"You assume?"

"There's really no way for me to know."

He held it together a bit longer than Vic expected him to, then his gentle squirming became more aggressive when he moved a hand away or pulled his head aside. He wasn't really giving the doctor much of an opportunity to examine him.

"All good doc?" Vic decided it was time to intervene when Clay tried to get up. "Hey you, stay put." He moved closer to the bed. "He gets cranky when he's tired," he explained. "Once you're gone, he'll settle down, go to sleep."

_Stay put? There's no roof!_

"He's not experiencing any difficulty breathing," the doctor greed. "Tylenol will manage his fever, so I'll check on him in the morning."

_I can breathe just fine, you quack. Just...can't...really hear too well._

Betty let him go, because whether or not she liked Vic, she trusted his first aid abilities. She knew how well trained he was, courtesy of his job and his employer, but she was also very familiar with Bravo. Jason only tolerated the best. And that included a medic who insisted everyone on the team be better than the training 101 class provided to everyone.

"Thank you," She closed the door behind him.

"What a waste of time." Vic scoffed once he was gone.

"It made me feel better for him to see Clay." Betty snapped. "Deal with it."

Vic blinked. Since when was she giving orders and making decisions? "Feel better? What the hell did he do, to make you feel better? Or him?" He pointed at the bed without looking over. "He didn't even poke a god-damn staple!"

"You said neither wound was inflamed!"

"He could have looked!"

"You didn't want the man anywhere near him!"

Clay knew they were arguing, but could only hear the timbre of Betty's higher-pitched voice. His hearing came and went, remained muted.

Ignoring them, he slowly slid to the edge of the mattress, swung one foot to the floor, sat up, lowered the other foot. He had to pee and though he wasn't up to a shower, he thought maybe he could handle sitting on the side of the tub and wiping down with a wet towel.

"Where you going?" Vic helped him stand and gain his balance. "Why can't you ever stay put?"

He hunched a shoulder, wiped his face on his wet t-shirt, flipped the bird, shuffled towards the bathroom. Vic let him go.

"Aren't you going with him?"

"Uh, NO?!"

"You can't let him go by himself."

"He's toilet trained." Vic mocked. "He knows to pee in the toilet."

"Really?" Her voice dripped sarcasm. "Was that necessary?"

Mrs. Bonsky returned with ice, juice and cups of pudding. Betty let her in. "Generators will provide limited power for the kitchen and lobby." She announced just as a thud came from the bathroom. "And that was?"

"Clay hitting the floor. Happy now?" Betty asked. Vic scowled.

"Clay?"

"SPENSER?" Vic shouted. "Dammit!" His palm smacked the wall in frustration.

Betty collected the first aid kit, snagged a t-shirt, headed to the bathroom. Vic blocked her advance, tried to snatch it from her hands.

"I've got him." He growled.

"You've done enough." She retorted. "Now stand aside and allow me to pass." She wrested the shirt from his grip. "Clay? I'm coming in." She found him slumped on the floor, hugging the tub, forehead and cheek pressed against its side, towel discarded in his lap. "Hey there, what'cha doing?" She knelt beside him, set the kit down, took the towel from his limp hold, turned the tub faucet on.

He'd finished peeing and lost his balance reaching for the towel he'd wanted to soak in cold water. He hadn't heard her come in, didn't look at her now as she pushed her hands between his elbows and forced his arms apart.

She tugged at the hem of his t-shirt. It was wet and clung to his slick chest, but she finally got it off him. He was compliant and quiet sitting on the floor as she helped him wash up.

"You, uh, fond of the tub?" She teased.

"Feels...cool." His head wet from a soaking via wet towel, he rose to sit on the side of the tub, allowed her to towel his hair until it no longer dripped. He used another towel to dry his neck and shoulders, then donned the dry shirt.

"It's warm." She agreed. "No a/c."

He let her apply an antiseptic to the sets of staples with a cotton swab on a stick and wrap a bandage around his leg, then accepted her arm to stand up, gain his balance and get back to bed.

"Thanks, but…." Clay swallowed, mouth dry yet saliva pooled on his lip. "…you can go. I'll feel better…in the morning..."

"You sure?" Betty hesitated, not sure whether she should leave him alone. He was settled in bed with a cold wet cloth on his forehead, somewhat more coherent. "You didn't eat much dinner. Are you at all hungry?"

"Just gonna sleep." Clay finished the cup of juice Mrs. Bonsky insisted he drink. Anything to get everyone the hell outta his room. "I'm good." He told her when she offered him yet more juice. "Later though, thanks."

"With that fever and this heat, you'll dehydrate." She admonished. "Never does anyone any good, they don't get enough fluids. Why, I tell that husband of hers all the time, he…."

"So, that's where he gets it." Clay muttered. Bravo's Lt. Commander was always on his men about drinking enough. Always. The cup was taken from his hand, he let it go, pressed both palms against the cloth on his head.

"Who gets what?" Vic asked. "Someone fill me in? No? Man, I hate not knowing what the hell everyone talks about."

"Get the hell out Lopez." Clay pulled the sheet over his legs, laid down. "Sorry ladies."

"I'll stay until you're asleep." Betty said firmly. She had a bathroom to clean up. "Mind if I borrow your sat phone?"

"How come you don't whack him for cursing?"

Mrs. Bonsky merely pursed her lips, remained silent.

"Fine. Need me, you know where my room is." Vic agreed to leave. He wanted to talk with the manager, walk the grounds, make sure everything was still good outside.

"Wait, you can escort me to the lobby. I want to see the news." Mrs. Bonsky stated. "I'll check in before I go to bed." She told Betty who nodded, walked them to the door, locked it behind them.

By the time she turned back – mere seconds – Clay was asleep, so she headed to the bathroom to mop the floor with towels. That chore done, the bathroom restored to rights, she took a seat in the armchair, made a mental note to collect many more towels, called Eric.

"Hey," Eric greeted. "How was dinner?"

"Clay fainted at the table." She blurted out. "Never got to finish it."

"That all?" He waited, obviously it wasn't. After all, this was Clay they were talking about.

"Oh, no. Apparently, when Clay fetched Vic, Vic shot him, thinking he was a bear. Neither thought I needed to know, so Vic 'handled it'. Cruise isn't going to be enough, think around-the-world tour."

Eric laughed. He tee-heed at her until her jaw ached from clenching her teeth so hard, her eyes throbbed. After she was sure he had laughed tears into his eyes, he finally said. "Not so easy, is it?" He sobered. All those nights, she had patiently sat beside him, listened to him, talked to him, stayed up with him, he knew she didn't quite believe he didn't exaggerate his stories. Well, now she knew.

"I tell you, had our first child been anything like him, there wouldn't have been a second."

"Flesh wound?" He guessed. Nothing serious or he would have been contacted immediately after his wife had found out one of his men had been shot. "And no, he's never fainted at dinner before." And had it been life-threatening, he would have heard from Lopez as soon as it had happened - if he hadn't, no matter what Jason and Ray thought or how they felt, Lopez would be transferred off the team.

In a bar once, though.

"Fleshly part of the outer thigh. The doctor here isn't helpful. Didn't even recognize the thermometer. Do you trust Vic?"

"His ability to properly treat a gunshot wound? Yes." He didn't have to like the man to trust him. "Trent's made sure of it." He visualized the gunshot. "In and out?"

"Above his knee." She told her husband what all had happened. "Staples look a bit swollen, but no signs of infection. Or is it too soon?"

"With Spenser?" Eric snorted. "No." Fever though, huh? From a mere skim of skin? Odd. "He being cooperative?" And above his knee? What the hell kind of angle had Vic shot from? Vic carried a .9mm, capable of doing serious damage, how had he managed to only wing Spenser in the leg?

"Clay's content to let Vic near him, but he didn't like the doctor touching him. Tolerated it though."

"Might be best to limit who gets near him." Eric advised. What was weird, was Clay going down from a flesh wound. That didn't sound right. The kid had suffered worse, battled through painful, surgery-required injuries and hadn't collapsed.

"…..we can't leave," his wife was saying. "Roads to town are flooded. They'd have to evacuate us by boat, but we are safe here. Generators are providing minimal power, so we can watch the news in the lobby. That's where Mom is now."

Eric was well aware of their situation. The roads. The water. The storm. The lack of electricity. Their safety. "He'll be fine." He assured her, hand not holding the phone talking to her, already thumbing a number on a second cell phone. "Didn't bleed around the staples, right?"

"Right."

"So, he fainted, running a fever, disoriented." Eric ticked off each symptom. "No signs of infection, no bleeding, no seepage or oozing around the staples?"

"No."

"And he's not complaining about his side?"

"He's not." She was watching her charge sleep. "Nor any bruise or bump from his fall off the bike and spill down the hill."

"Any other symptoms?"

"I don't believe so. He says he's hot. You deal with this every mission?"

Eric laughed. "Hell no! It happens, yes, but not every mission and he's not the only team member who gets hurt or sick."

"Sure seems like it does."

"Let him sleep." Eric told her. "Tylenol or Advil for his fever. Trent prefers you alternate every two to three hours….yeah, I know, not the recommended time, but Doc and Trent figured it out, so we abide by it. It goes over 103, call me back."

"Roger that." She hung up. 103? Hell, she wasn't prone to panic. Was a firm believer, if she showed it, she'd scare whoever was causing her to panic, so yeah, she blew off any injury to her kids. But none of them, at any time in their lives, had ever run a fever over 101. "Forget the tour, I'm thinking a Caribbean island to retire on."

Eric poured a glass of whisky, sat down in his favorite chair with several ginger cookies. He rested his eyes until he consumed the fourth and last cookie, then pressed send on the phone.

"How did Lopez fuck up?"

"Shot him."

"Course he did."

"Where you at?"

"Less than an hour from Madison."

"They're flooded in."

"That matters, why?"

"Rather you not walk in alone."

"Jason sent Metal."

Eric filled him in. "Stand by."

"Will do." Trent hung up.

"Now what?" Metal asked. Five kids either played or watched TV nearby. "He wreck a four-wheeler this time, 'stead of a bike?"

"Drown?" Janine joked.

"Trapped under a tree?"

"She lost him?" Janine high-fived Metal.

"Vic shot him." Trent grinned.

"Oooh, that's a new one, right?" Janine cocked her head as she gave it some thought. "Nope, he's never been shot by a teammate before." She returned a head to a doll's body. "Right?"

"So, we gonna go get him?" Metal opened three more bottles of beer, handed them out. "It's why I'm here, ain't it? When?"

"Yeah, we are. It is. Soon."

"Still don't understand why Blackburn made him go or why Jason sent Vic, but whatever." Metal downed half the bottle in one gulp. He'd been at his mountain cabin with Pam when Jason had called and told him to join Trent in North Carolina.

He had no idea Trent had taken his family camping, but yeah, once he realized it was close to the resort the women had taken Clay to, it all made sense; someone other than Vic from Bravo would always be nearby wherever their rookie was.

"Just tryin' to help the kid get some rest."

"How'd that work out?"

Trent shrugged, drank some beer. When the storm had been forecasted, he and the family had relocated to the safety of a hotel where Metal – who'd been ordered to join Trent after Clay had wrecked on the bicycle – had taken a room when he'd arrived. It was further away from the resort than he wanted to be, but the safety of his family came first.

Thankfully, Metal had left Pam behind, because while Janine wouldn't bat an eye no matter how many kids she had underfoot, her patience would be tested if she had to entertain Pam by herself in a hotel, during a storm where Pam wouldn't have anything to do.

"Okay, I'm gonna ask….why did Vic shoot him?" Janine asked. "I mean, how'd it happen? Clay wouldn't just stand there and let him shoot him."

"You gonna be okay here with five young un's?" Metal asked as a squabble started, grew louder.

"Dude, every day of my life." She grinned.

"Vic went into town to avoid Betty seeing his split lips from Clay's fist. With the storm, Blackburn wanted him at the resort, so Clay went to get him….Vic thought he was a bear."

"In a hurricane?"

Trent shrugged, waved a hand, told them the rest of what Eric had divulged. "Blackburn's checking with the local authorities, but looks like we'll be walking in."

Metal shrugged. "I can swim."

"Should I pack up? Head home?"

"Nope." Trent finished his beer. "Gonna take his ass home with us. See how he likes riding in a 32-foot RV with five kids, running a fever with a bum hip, bruised kidney, a gunshot wound in his thigh and you behind the wheel."

"Hey now, I drive just fine." She protested. "I don't speed, I yield properly, I don't tailgate, I know how to merge and I give way to big rigs."

"And if there's a pothole, anywhere on the road, you'll find it." Trent pointed out. "You swerve to avoid one, you hit another bigger, deeper one."

That was true and she merely grinned back at him.

"Two." Metal waggled his fingers.

"Two what?" Janine asked.

"Gun shots. In and out, even if it ain't bad, gotta suck." He considered having another beer, decided against it since he didn't know when they'd be leaving. "And Vic stapled him? Really gotta suck. When we heading out?"

"And you know that, how?" She inquired, taking away a toy when the squabble erupted into a slap-fight over it.

"Vic's an ass, but he ain't a dumb one." Metal explained. "If he had to dig a bullet outta the kid, he wudda called Blackburn himself. So, can't be a serious gun shot."

She turned to her husband, slapped the knuckles of the closest bickering kid. "You always say all gun shots are serious."

"They are. Just some aren't that bad."

"You're talking about Clay." She reminded him, made the toy disappear.

"And the reason we're heading into a hurricane, depth of waters unknown to get him."

"Hurricanes don't usually last that long." Metal said.

"And when has Clay been caught in the middle of one, requiring Trent's help?" Janine snorted. "And the burst dam in Roanoke doesn't count."

"Good point." Metal conceded. Sure, sure….this was Clay, so yeah, safe to bet this would be the longest lasting hurricane the mountains of North Carolina would ever see.

Trent picked up his buzzing phone, aah, Jason. "Hey boss." He went into the bathroom, shut the door.

"Gonna take couple hours, to get there." Metal observed. "Course, it has to be at night, height of a storm. Couldn't get shot on a sunny morning."

"Guess I should get him packed." Janine ruffled the hair of the kid bawling in her lap over the loss of his toy. "You're okay dude, suck it up."

"Uh, packed?" Metal had been in the Navy since he'd turned 18. He'd been on teams, in units, with platoons. He'd led his own team. But in all his years, he'd never encountered a team like Bravo. They liked one another, they hated each other. They'd defend their brother, then throw him under the bus. Let someone hurt one of them and heads were lost. Never had there been a tighter team.

"Med pack, you'll need clothes. You're gonna get wet and muddy, so you'll need to shower."

Women, Metal rolled his eyes heavenward, were creatures of comfort. "Spenser will have toothpaste, soap and shampoo."

"You'll need your toothbrush."

"Right, sure." He muttered into the neck of the bottle. "My toothbrush."

Trent popped his head around the door. "Authorities are prohibiting traffic on the highway. Back roads are unreliable. Rain is heavy, travel is unpredictable and not advised."

"So, we're walking."

"We reach Madison, meet the National Guard, Blackburn arranged for a canoe."

"A canoe?" Janine questioned. "Odd boat."

"Oh, sure, great." Metal heaved a false, dramatic sigh, finished his beer. "So, walk, hike, swim and carry a canoe over my head, in the dark, during a hurricane to retrieve a kid who never should have left home in the first place."

He'd willingly joined this team, why?

"Lotta bitchin' from the man who lost the kid in his own house." Trent came out of the bathroom, picked up the kid clamoring for his attention.

Metal scowled. "Never gonna let me live that one down, are you?"

Trent beamed. "Your. Own. Fucking. House. Metal."

"I'd been drinking homemade moonshine." He added defensively. "And that was like, months ago."

"And you've been forbidden from doing so again when you're responsible for babysitting duties." Trent dumped the kid in her mothers' lap. "And Jason doesn't forget, it's why you were sent here."

"Gonna be a long walk."

"Don't be so melodramatic." Janine chided good-naturedly. Right, two men could easily carry a canoe and it even if the current was strong, as long as it wasn't raging, they could navigate it to where they wanted to go. "If you have a canoe, you won't be swimming."

Trent's phone buzzed; he read the text. "Let's go get him."

***000***

Clay raised a hand to scrub over his sweaty face. His hand was gently guided to rest on his belly and a cold, damp cloth dabbed his forehead, nose and cheeks.

He didn't like that.

"Have you alternated acetaminophen and ibuprofen?" Mrs. Bonsky asked.

"Yes mom."

"Have you bathed him with tepid water?"

"Yes mom."

"And you've kept the cloth on his head, cool and wet?"

"I have."

"And his fever has gone up, not down?"

"That's correct."

"Are you sure that thing is working right?"

"I am."

"Why is he so red?"

"Fever?" Betty said uncertainly. The room was lit by wick lanterns, so it was dim but he did seem to have a red hue to his skin. "The heat?"

"Have you called the doctor back? He lives on the grounds, you know."

"I do know."

She'd thought about it, then dismissed the idea without even discussing it with Vic. Clay barely tolerated her anywhere near him, went tense and rigid whenever she tried to touch him. Talking softly didn't work. The sound of her voice didn't sooth him. Her touch didn't comfort him. She didn't think letting a complete stranger - she doubted Clay would remember meeting him numerous times - anywhere near him was a good idea.

"He's not settled."

No, he wasn't and nothing she did, made him so.

She'd cared for sick kids. She'd tended injuries – and not just scraped knees and cut fingers. She'd helped her husband change dressings and bandages on infected wounds that were red and bruised and swollen, oozing green and yellow fluids with a bad odor. She'd seen glued incisions with black skin; seen them stapled, stitched, held together inadequately with butterfly band-aids and steri-strips with black skin that had to clipped off.

But always, that was after Eric had been properly and professionally treated. Top-notch medical care was a short drive away at the base hospital where they never had to wait to be seen.

Vic was good, but he wasn't Trent-good and he wasn't a professionally trained medic. And never, had Eric been sick, unresponsive, so unsettled or so reluctant to respond to her. Her husband was always willing to slurp soup, eat pudding, drink juice or ginger ale.

Not Clay.

This was all new territory.

"No, he's not." She crossed the room to open the door. "Vic." She let him in. Maybe he could do something.

"Just checking in." Vic closed the door behind him. "All's good outside. Winds have let up, but the rain hasn't."

Mrs. Bonsky nodded. "Alright, then call that husband of yours."

"I did."

"And?"

"He's as unable to respond as everyone else affected by the storm."

"Pish-posh."

"Excuse me?" Vic asked. What the hell did that mean? "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means bullshit." The elderly woman breathed in exasperation. "I don't believe a word she's saying. If that wastrel wanted to move mountains to the beach and get his man out of here via a ship, he would."

"Wastrel? What wast….Blackburn?" He shook his head. "W _hat_?"

"Vic, it's late, you should go to bed." Betty said. "Thanks for checking in."

Oh, Vic wanted to. He was so tired, his eyes burned, but he just knew Betty was going to insist she spend the night with Clay and yeah, he didn't feel right about that.

"Just…it might be better, we leave him alone, let him sleep."

"He's not going to do anything to me." She said before he could protest further or find a reason to remain in the room. "He's sleeping." Well, not exactly sleeping, more of a fitful, restless dozing, but still, she could handle it.

Clay stirred, sensed the additional person in the room, decided he just had to know who it was.

_I'd be asleep, everyone would shut up_.

"No raised voices." Vic advised. "No sudden moves, don't try to restrain him. Talk to him, before you try and touch him."

_Oh, it was Lopez. Asshole._

Betty barely refrained from snapping. What the hell did he think she'd been doing, these last hours?

"Oh now, good grief!" Mrs. Bonsky huffed. "What's he going to do? Jump out of bed, wrestle her to the floor and lock her in a scissor hold?"

"Yes." He said simply, waited, dared her to scoff at him.

"Elizabeth!"

"Mom, please. Don't start with him." Betty was tired, she had a headache and she wanted to simply sit in the chair and rest her aching eyes. "Vic, just go. Go to bed, you're just down the hall, if I need you."

"He'll be okay alone." Vic said seriously. "He's not delirious, not puking, right?"

_Hot. I'm just hot._

"That very well may be true." She agreed. "Or I'll come to check on him and he'll be gone."

"Where would he go?"

_Dip in the cold lake sounds good…..'cause...I'm hot._

"I don't know Vic, does he always choose to go somewhere when he disappears? Or does he get taken?"

"No one _here_ is going to kidnap him!"

"You're willing to take that risk?"

"FINE! Stay and babysit him. I'm going to bed."

"And stay there this time!" Mrs. Bonsky yelled after him. "Really Elizabeth, I just can't like that boy."

"Mmmm."

Her last call to Eric, he'd told her to sit tight, he was working on it. She hadn't been able to connect with him again on any of the three phones; landline, cellphone or sat.

So, she was sitting tight.

"Why is the bed wet?" Mrs. Bonsky tsked-tsked. "He can't be comfortable in wet sheets. Have you called for fresh ones?"

She had. And she'd changed the bed when he'd gotten up for the bathroom, but between how badly he was sweating, the warmth of the room, the muggy humidity and water dripping from towels she used to try and cool him down, the sheets had become soaked and she hadn't done so again.

"Alright." Mrs. Bonsky said briskly. "That chair reclines, get some sleep. I had a nice nap watching the news." She pulled the desk chair closer to the bed, plopped down, produced a book. "I'll watch him for a bit."

Betty wanted to argue, but her mother hadn't suggested she leave the room and return to her own, so she nodded and went to the bathroom to wash up.

"And you, my blonde Adonis, stop this nonsense." Mrs. Bonsky fearlessly laid a palm on Clay's forehead. "I'm much too old to figure out what ails you."


	6. Chapter 6

Clay was not comfortable. In fact, he was miserable. He was hot. He was itchy. He ached. His leg hurt. His side hurt. His hip hurt. His head hurt. _He_ hurt. He was wet. And sticky. And he was quite sure that foul smell, was him.

He wanted…..relief.

The ladies with him, were kind, gentle and wanted to be helpful, but his memories of who they were, were distant and he didn't know them well enough to trust them, take anything from them, and all they wanted to do...was give him things.

The pillow upon which his head rested, was too hot; he flipped it over, it was too cold. One minute, it was hard as a rock, made his head ache; the next, it was too soft, his head sank, made his neck stiff. He pushed it aside, laid his head flat, the mattress was too firm, made his cheek ache. If he laid on his back, eyes towards the ceiling, the room spun and objects floated – making it impossible for him to keep his eyes open. And when they were closed, he was forced to rely on his other senses and his hearing remained on the fritz.

All combining to make him antsy.

No position was sustainable for long…some part of him or another, ached or throbbed or thumped….he truly felt awful. The room was stuffy, the bed entrapped him. The light was dim, cast shadows, played tricks on him – you know, like revealing moving furniture and hovering clocks and remotes.

He liked the bathroom. Nothing moved in there. Shadows didn't dance on the walls. The floor, though hard, was blessedly cool and nothing wrapped around his legs or stuck to his skin.

It was just….every time he escaped his wet, muggy cocoon and made it to the welcoming comfort of the bathroom floor, he was 'retrieved' and coaxed back to bed.

Damn Grandma! If she'd just leave him the fuck alone….he could remain on the cold, hard floor and wallow all he wanted. He could damn well take care of himself, he didn't need someone telling him what to do, where to go, where to stay.

"Oh, no you don't." Mrs. Bonsky muttered when Clay bunched the sheets in his fists. "You never quit, do you?"

Edna Bonsky was the oldest of ten children from the backwoods of Kentucky. She had helped raise her siblings, as well as seven children of her own in those mountains and had yet to lose one. She had numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren – generations came early in the hills – as well as countless nieces and nephews and so forth and so on, and _never_ , had she encountered such a restless, fidgety, fretful child in all her life as the man currently trying to crawl away from her and the comfort of his queen size bed.

He did not sleep.  
He did not lie still.  
He squirmed, he wiggled, he twitched, he rolled, and flipped, and flopped.  
He did not listen.  
He did not tolerate what she did to cool him down.  
He would not leave the cold cloth on his forehead.  
He did not like her attempts to wipe the sweat from his face and neck.  
He would not leave the sheets alone.  
He would not part his teeth for a spoon of pudding.  
He would not drink.  
She couldn't convince or coax him to consume anything to remain hydrated.  
She could not keep him in bed.  
He was overly fond of the bathroom floor.

"In all my years." She muttered. "Never have I come across the likes of you." She no longer liked the fancy thermometer. Every time she read it – every thirty minutes – it remained steady at 103.4. Had for the last two hours. Accurate indeed, the damn thing.

He refused her offer/demands to 'open up and swallow' either Tylenol or Advil and numerous cool cloths and 'sponge baths' failed to bring it down. To be fair, it didn't go up either, but she didn't like it being over 102.

"Where you going now, you little bugger?" She snagged an ankle, halted his progress. He didn't try and kick free, just went boneless, limp on the mattress. "As if I didn't know." Great, she was talking to herself – proof she was finally going senile. She wasn't as young as she was when she'd sat up all night with one of her own kids, so perhaps, she was just tired. "I'd swaddle you, I thought it'd do any good. Never had one baby get loose, but…" she tapped his nose with a fingertip. "…then there's you."

Every time she turned around, reached for something, looked away, nodded off – and did he always know? – he turned and twisted, rolled to his belly, gained his knees and crawled off the bed. He always went to the bathroom, ended up on the floor.

He didn't show signs of delirium. He wasn't hallucinating. He just wasn't content to stay put. Well, not true. He was, just not where she wanted him to 'stay put'.

"No wonder your team always loses you." She tugged the sheet from beneath him, it was damp and she sighed. "Bet you never stayed in a crib. I had one of those, could climb anything." She eyed the scar on his thigh, knew it extended towards his groin, hidden by the tight, soft material of his boxer briefs. "Hell of a scar, my boy."

"He was blown up." Betty yawned. She stretched, sat up, glanced at the clock. She and her mother were switching every hour. "What's he doing now?" She asked sleepily. She'd been dozing, not sleeping and she ached, her joints stiff from napping upright in the chair. Would this night ever end? The rain ever stop?

"Trying to kiss the bathroom floor." Mrs. Bonsky told Betty, didn't push the subject of the scar. "What ails the boy? Perfectly good, comfy bed right here and he doesn't want to stay in it."

"Tile is cooler."

"But hardly sanitary."

"Don't suppose it matters." Betty sighed.

"We are not letting him sleep on that disgusting floor."

"No." She agreed. "We're not. And he probably wouldn't stay there long anyway." She got to her feet at a loud, obnoxious knock on the door. "Can't reach Eric, even the sat phone's unable to get a signal." A louder, harder knock. "Yeah, yeah, on my time Mr. Lopez."

"He's been knuckling his ear." Mrs. Bonsky said. "The last forty minutes or so."

_Bangbangbang._

"I've got it." She crossed the room while Betty diverted to approach the bed. _Bangpoundbangpound_. _Bangbangbang._ "Here now, cease that pounding, you rude guttersnipe." She swung the door open, expecting to confront a sleepy-eyed Vic, not two large, wet, muddy, murky figures that loomed menacingly in the odd, dim light, filling the doorway.

Mrs. Bonsky shrieked.  
Betty jumped.  
Clay was on his feet, pointing his Glock with a steady hand towards the door.

"The hell he'd get a gun?" Metal let Trent enter the room first. "Hey now, no need for that shrieking, I ain't that bad looking."

"Scott." Betty greeted, grappling for her mother who was doing some odd dance, like she was barefoot on hot pavement. "Mom…Mom! MOM!"

"Mrs. Blackburn." Metal's muddy grin was actually terrifying and not at all reassuring. "Howdy."

"We're being robbed! Oh my! Oh my! Not my pearls! Not. My. Pears! Over my dead body, you'll get my pearls!"

"Mom, stop." Betty said wearily, she was just too tired to deal with anything more. "No one is here to take your pearls; these men are Clay's teammates."

Both Metal and Trent silently noted she didn't include Vic.

Mrs. Bonsky went still. "Say what?"

"Eric sent them."

"You _know_ them?" Mrs. Bonsky asked, palm against her racing heart. She leaned out the door, peered left, then right. "Any more of you?" If her daughter wasn't scared of these behemoths, she had no reason to be either.

"We're it." Metal said, impressed with how fast she'd calmed down. "Spenser, get that gun out of my face or I will flip you over 'til you puke, you fucking little pipsqueak."

Trent knew better than to waste time trying to talk to Clay. He entered the room, dropped his backpack and duffle without breaking stride and crossed the room. In a blur, he swiped the gun from Clay's hand, tossed it to Metal, swept the kid off his feet and swung him one-armed onto the bed while Metal disarmed the gun and made it disappear.

"What the….? Now, see here! Just who do you think you are? Here now, you just don't get to barge in and take control! Elizabeth, do something!"

"Find Lopez." Trent told Metal who nodded and melted out of the room so fluidly, Mrs. Bonsky wasn't sure she'd ever seen him.

"This is Trent." Betty told her mother. "That was Metal."

"Trent, the medic?"

"The medic."

"So, your husband's men." She didn't sound impressed, tied her bathrobe tighter. "You know Elizabeth, he should really teach his men some manners. Their language! Can he not hold classes? Barge in here like….."

"Mom!"

Within seconds, the room glowed brightly from two LED lanterns. Trent refused to work in bad light or darkness when he didn't have to. The light provided by the lanterns only lit the immediate area of the bed, but it was good enough.

For now.

Trent didn't acknowledge the ladies, didn't speak, snagged Clay who was on his knees and in the process of climbing off the bed, flipped him onto his back.

"So, how's the weather out there?" Mrs. Bonsky quipped, no longer willing to be ignored. "Took you long enough to get here."

"Mom."

"Well, really Liz, if they were coming, they could have come sooner."

"Mom."

"You know, before we spent the night trying to keep him in bed and off the bathroom floor."

"Hurricane Mom. They didn't drive."

"Harrumph, that husband of yours couldn't send them via some secret military contraption my tax dollars pay for?" She countered. "I'm sure they have an Airwolf stashed somewhere and he has access to it. If they can climb up a ladder into a chopper, I'm sure they can climb down out of one."

"Mom."

"Hey, here now." She stepped forward. "I've kept the boy clean and dry for hours while you diddly-dallied making your way here. Don't you go leaving him all dirty and muddy. I just changed those sheets!"

"MOM!"

"Well, you know I did." Her mother said defensively. "I had to go to the housekeeping closest and get them myself!"

" ** _MOM_**!"

"He could at least wash his hands, take off his wet coat before he soils the sheets. Does he think we have an unlimited supply? Can't do laundry, you know. Why, I…."

**_" MOTHER!" _ **

Mrs. Bonsky sniffed, went into the bathroom, should the call for towels or water come, she'd be ready. She watched from the distance of the doorway while Trent snagged a backpack she very much doubted she could lift, sat it on the chair she'd just vacated, opened flaps, pockets, zippers, and proceeded to examine Clay: Pulse, breathing, eyes, gun shots, bruised hip, kidney bruise, every cut, scrape and road rash on him.

Everything the doctor should have done and didn't.

Look at that! Just. Look. At. That.

Stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, thermometer. Scissors, hemostats, knives, scalpels, razors, clamps. Canisters, packages, bottles, tubes, bags….wait, what the hell was that? Was that blood? It wasn't, was it? It was! It was a bag of blood! It looked just like those ones at the blood drive.

Now, Mrs. Bonsky didn't know very much about how blood was stored. She'd given gallons over her lifetime to the local blood drive, but had no idea what they did with it. That TV show – the one with the tormented vampire who had his soul restored by gypsies – had kept his refrigerated, so unless there was a mini-fridge in that bag…..

"How long his fever been this high?" With a wickedly sharp knife, he cut through the bandage around Clay's thigh, sliced the tape in two, removed the gauze pads, nodded with satisfaction. "Damn Lopez, finally found something you did right."

"Been steady for the last two hours." Betty told him. "And he hasn't had any meds because he won't take them." She rubbed her temples. "He doesn't like it when we try and cool him down either, but will leave a cold cloth on his forehead for a few minutes."

"Cause he doesn't know you." Trent replied. "And he's hot and it feels good, 'til it doesn't He doesn't like water on his face and even warm water on his arms and chest, will make him feel cold."

_Trent? Was that Trent? Trent? That you, ole buddy, ole pal?_

"…..you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna tie your hands behind you and slap duct-tape over your mouth," Metal was saying as he led a sleepy-eyed Vic into the room. "Hang you on the back of the door, kick you heels, I dare you, see what the fuck happens to you."

"The hell's your problem?" Vic jerked his arm free. "Why'd ya go and get me up? Can't a man sleep in peace around here?"

_'bout time, you took your sweet time gettin' here, didn't ya?_

"Go ahead, keep yakkin'. Ain't no Ray here, take your side." Metal closed the door. "Why I always gotta suffer the damn fools?"

"She'll slap you upside the head with a slipper, you use that kind of language." Vic warned with a yawn. "Trent." Great, the surly medic was here. Oh, yay!

"You were in bed?" Trent didn't even glance over, but oh, his voice held a tone.

_Trent was here! Yay! Woot-woot!_

"Well, yeah, it's like, what? Almost dawn."

"It's past dawn."

_Okay, now, Trent? Stop givin' Lopez all your attention….make me feel better._

"Whatever."

"You shoot him, and leave him with two women he barely knows?"

_You did. He did. Haha, now you're gonna get it._

"He doesn't need care." Vic huffed. "No infection. I took care of it. For Christ's sake, he's fine. Why won't anyone believe me?"

"103.4 fever?"

Mrs. Bonsky hadn't seen Trent take the boy's temperature, but she was enjoying seeing Vic served a set-down.

"I didn't know it was that high. I told them to come get me, it went over 103."

"Come get you? You left him with them all night?" Trent paused, now he did glance over. "You know, he'd've taken Tylenol from you, right?"

Mrs. Bonsky cackled. Oh, she was liking Trent-the-medic.

"What are you even doing here?" Vic asked crossly. What the hell was he going on about, anyway? Tylenol? Pfft. "Blackburn send you?"

"You. Shot. Him." Metal reiterated, in case Trent hadn't been clear. "Hell Lopez, you don't think firing your weapon in public, warranted a call to your commanding officer?"

"It wasn't heard by anyone. No one else was stupid enough to be out in that weather."

"You don't know that."

"Wait, you're pissed at _me_? Aren't you pissed you had to walk…swim….whatever to come here…because of him?" He pointed at Clay. "I didn't ask you to come, not my fault you hadda come after him."

"How's'it not your fault, you douche?" Metal shot back. "You fucking shot him."

"Winged him." Vic corrected, went ignored. "You wanna lay blame? He never shudda been out there. Shudda listened when…."

"What if it had been someone else you shot? Huh? You think about that?" Metal snorted. "You're an ass. You think I wanted to leave my wife, drive to bumfuck nowhere to accompany his ass," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Trent, "navigate flooded roads in the middle of a hurricane in a fucking canoe, because you went and shot Bravo's baby?"

"Your wife? That was she is?" Vic taunted. "And if he needed anyone, it'd be Trent, _you_ didn't have to come."

"Tread carefully." Metal warned. "On this team, we don't go solo."

"Guess you're all better now, no more vertigo, you drove down here."

"Next time you trip on a path, take a tumble, and I'm behind you? Won't be an accident."

"Talk to me." Trent told Vic before he could come back at Metal. "He went off the bike?"

"Prick hit me in the chest with the front tire. Ploughed right into me." He waited, but no one said anything. "I'm fine, by the way."

"Nice split lip." Metal smirked. "Lips." He corrected. "Got that from a tire in the chest, did ya?"

"You jumped out of the bushes into his path." Mrs. Bonsky chimed in. "Rather childish, but then, look who I'm talking to."

"It was a prank! Who the hell expected him to wreck the damn bike?" Vic retorted. "We pull them all the time to break the monotony, ease tension."

"In my day, your behind would be warmed by a paddle, you pulled a prank like that! Your entitled generation got a time-out and look…where...we...are!"

"Why you ol…" Vic stepped forward, was pushed back by Metal.

"Thinkin' Trent asked you a question."

Vic scowled, shot Metal a look, grudgingly acquiesced. "He wrecked the bike, went over the handlebars, slid down a hill, hip hit a rock. He saw the doc, just a bruise, some road rash."

"The same doc who didn't recognize a modern thermometer?"

"You know Trent, he's a grown man with the skills and training to know whether or not his hip became detached from his ass."

"That's not even possible." Mrs. Bonsky said.

"Mom."

"Well, it's not!"

"I can't believe you two came here."

"Was he wearing a helmet?"

Silence from the ladies. Vic scowled.

"So, no." Trent was holding up an eyelid, flashing a penlight into Clay's eye. "You checked him for a concussion, right?" He repeated the process with the other eye. "Right?" Silence. "Didn't you?" Silence. "So, you didn't."

"He didn't land on his head."

"And that matters?" Trent grimaced at Clay's wet hair, but dug his fingers through the thick curls to reach scalp, searched for lumps or bumps, found neither. Nor did he find cuts or abrasions, not even a tender spot.

_Aaah, that feels wonderful...that spot, right there...oh yeah. Love ya Trent old buddy._

"He had a headache all day yesterday." Betty said. "As well as the day before, come to think of it."

"How do you know that?" Vic demanded. "He didn't complain about his head hurting"

"He went to the kitchen, asked for a popsicle." She told Trent, turned to Vic. "I talk to people, I don't snub my nose at the," she made air quotes to emphasis her sarcasm, "hired help."

"You didn't know?" Trent said slowly, used a towel to rub Clay's hair. "The hell's the matter with you? You were sent here to keep an eye on him."

"Metal, talk to him." Vic said impatiently. "Make him see reason."

"Make him? Sawyer? See reason? Now, you're just talking shit."

"Your medic wouldn't need to be here, you didn't go pulling stupid pranks, knocking the poor boy into fences and shoving him into pits of mud." Mrs. Bonsky accused. "And, you know, shooting him."

"Christ, you're an ass." Trent spat.

"For fuck's sake, not my fault he can't stay on his own two feet."

"Wait a minute, hold on, lemme get this straight." Metal perched a hip on the corner of the dresser, extended a finger. "Day one, you arrive, settle in to your room, all's good."

The ladies nodded.

"Day two, your first full day here," he paused, waited, again they nodded, "Lopez here, causes him to wreck the bike." He added a second finger. "What else?" Because it was Spenser, so of course there was something else.

"Vic pushed him into the fence." Mrs. Bonsky tattled. "After dinner."

"I did not!" Vic protested. "He fell."

"Because you shoved him."

"He lost his balance! He saw the doc, he was fine."

"You follow up? Check him for deeper bruising? Swelling?" Trent questioned.

"He has a mouth, he can speak up, he has any pain, pisses blood."

Metal ticked off another finger. "So, yesterday, your third day here…."

"Today." Vic corrected. "No, wait, it's past dawn, so yeah, yesterday. I think."

"Shut up." Metal snapped. "Your third day here, you shot him?"

"For the LOVE of God! ENOUGH!" Vic exploded. "You all make it sound like I did it on purpose. I didn't know it was him! He didn't respond when I yelled at him to stop and show his hands! What the hell was I supposed to do? Get attacked?"

"By your teammate?"

"I didn't know….AARRGH!"

"Did you or did you not, push him on into the mud?" Betty asked.

"On purpose." Mrs. Bonsky added.

"I. Did. Not."

"The hell Lopez, you ever know when to quit?" Metal asked. "What mud?"

"The mud pits in the spa room." Betty explained. "Clay spent the morning sleeping until he went into town after Vic."

"He didn't need to come after me. I didn't need fetching." Vic countered irritably. "He stayed here, none of this wudda happened and they wouldn't be here."

"So, it's all his fault?" Metal went silent. He knew Trent, and Vic was talking his way into a future boxing match that would end when he was knocked unconscious after Trent beat the crap out of him. He'd be eating soft foods for a month.

"So, no."

"No, what?" Vic hadn't even noticed Trent had asked him a question. He got the feeling Trent was running some kind of tally to be used later against him.

"And then you shot him." Metal said. "Just, eh, bang-bang, now you're dead, laying in a pool of red. Something like that, eh?"

"What? NO!" Startled, Vic exclaimed, "JESUS CHRIST Metal! The hell!? NO!"

Trent pinned Clay on his right side, palpated along the bruise. Yeah, the kid didn't like that, stirred with a groan, moved his hips away from the annoyance.

_Ow..owowowow! Trent! Whoa dude, supposed to be making me feel better, not worse._

"Doesn't feel too good, eh? I know." His thumb hit a particularly tender spot, drew a guttural grunt from a squirming Clay.

"Then stop doing it."

Trent shot Mrs. Bonsky a side-eyed glance, hooked a thumb under the elastic waistband of Clay's boxer briefs, exposed his hip…another bruise, but only a bruise. He let the elastic snap back, finished his exam, pushed Clay onto his back, held him down with a palm on his shoulder.

"Stay still….hey…." Trent smacked him in his belly. "I said, stay still."

"How'd you end up shooting him?" Metal asked. "Don't make no sense, you shot him in the leg like that. Were you on your back?"

"He was wearing a black raincoat that billowed out in the wind. It was dark, just the car headlights and I yelled at him to stop, raise his hands. He didn't. I thought he was a bear."

_Didn't look like no fucking bear, you dumbass._

"Shot from an odd angle, to hit him in the outer thigh." Metal stepped closer to the bed when Trent turned his attention to the staples. "Don't look too bad."

"I didn't shoot to kill." Vic muttered haughtily.

"Yet, you thought you were being attacked by…a…bear….?" Mrs. Bonsky smiled sweetly at Vic's growl.

"Y.E.S." Vic uttered lethally. "I yelled at him to stop."

_You Did Not!_

"Looks good." Trent agreed, mini LED flashlight between his teeth. There was limited swelling from the pull of the skin against the staples, little bruising but no puss, no seepage. Neither wound was red or inflamed and Clay didn't flinch or moan when he applied pressure around both sets of staples with the sides of his thumbs.

"Then what's causin' his fever?"

"Workin' on it." Trent gave Clay's cheek a smart slap. "Hey! Need you to talk to me. Spenser?" Another slap. "Come on, you don't get to ignore me." He tapped the back of his knuckles repeatedly against first one cheek, then the other.

_Trent, dude, glad you're here, but stop slappin' me._

Mrs. Bonsky decided she did not like that. "Now listen you, I know the boy is addled, but slapping him into next week certainly isn't going to get you any answers."

"I like her." Metal joked to Betty. "She's feisty."

Trent decided he did not like elderly ladies. They always gave him shit. "Clay, who am I?"

"I'mma hot 'ent."

"Where are you?"

"N'a'o'ven."

"What colors make purple?"

"Mumph?"

"Define dog."

"Woof?"

Trent took hold of Clay's biceps, hauled him off the pillows, gave him a slight shake. His head bobbed, flopped. Another, harder shake and his teeth clacked when his chin hit his chest.

"What kind of questions are those?" Mrs. Bonsky had left the sanctuary of the bathroom, hovered at Trent's elbows. "Have a care, he's rather fragile. He bruises easily."

Vic looked at Metal for his reaction but the gruff man simply returned to his perch on the dresser, arms crossed over his chest, laughing over Clay being described as 'fragile'; felt anger begin to churn in his gut. Had he treated Clay in such a manner in front of anyone from Bravo, he'd be hanging from his toes.

"You gonna let that go?"

"Let what go?"

"He's likely dehydrated." Mrs. Bonsky advised. "Should you do that? You shouldn't do that." She tut-tutted. "Certainly no good can come of you shaking him like a dog playing with a floppy bear."

"Uh huh." Trent gave Clay another hard shake, let him sink back amongst the pillows. Was it the oppressive heat making Clay groggy, disoriented? Causing his red skin? She was right thought, shaking him wasn't going to get the reaction he wanted.

"He's not getting enough to drink." She insisted. "Dehydration will make him dizzy, weak…. _disoriented_." She waved a hand over the bed to make her triumph point. "Does he not have a kidney issue? He should be drinking more, not less. I keep telling that man she married, he wouldn't always be so tired, he drank more fluids. But does he listen? No."

Trent coughed to cover his abrupt desire to giggle. Yes, giggle. Blackburn didn't listen? Oh, if only she knew, her son-in-law was always after the most elite, best physically fit, trained team the Navy had, to drink more fluids.

HeeHeeHeeHaHaHa!

"Blackburn isn't tired because he doesn't consume enough fluids." Metal began with a patient smile, "The lives of his men and the success of their mission…." He stopped when Trent coughed over him. "….uh…um….yeah, flights are long. You know? Cargo plane, and all." He shook his head. "Not a comfortable ride."

Trent didn't think the staples were the cause of the fever, but decided to remove them anyway. Sometimes, it was as simple as skin not liking anything foreign invading its territory. He really didn't like how red Clay's skin was...heat rash, maybe?

"He good?" Metal asked, expected a yes that didn't come. "Trent?" He turned, glad to change the subject. "The hell? Thought the gun shot wasn't that serious?"

"Not that." Trent muttered distractedly. "Somethin'…dunno." He curled a lip into a sneer. "Lopez? Piss poor site rep."

He withdrew an instrument that looked, to Mrs. Bonsky, to be a cross between a pair of pliers and a paper-staple remover. She watched him tear open a package with his teeth, and swab both sets of staples. He blotted them dry and with a flick of his wrist, pulled out all six stables.

Wow, that was fast. And Clay, the little rat, didn't even twitch. Sure, let her approach him with a harmless wash cloth, and he was squirming all over the bed to get away from her...She gritted her teeth, clenched her jaw.

"What'd ya do that for?" Vic surged forward. "The hell Trent, there was nothing wrong with those staples! I may not be up to your standards, but the Navy doesn't find fault with my first aid skills."

She watched the medic as he held green plastic tweezers, snagged a huge wad of cotton, held it against the neck of a brown bottle with no label until it was soaked with the liquid it contained, then dabbed both wounds, let the excess run and drip with no attempt to wipe it up.

"Nothing to do with you." Trent sighed.

Just as Metal said: "Why you gotta make everything about you?"

Betty was beginning to understand why her husband felt Bravo was the best. Trent may not be gentle or soothing, but he was efficient and thorough. She never would have felt comfortable removing the staples, but maybe they were the cause, source of the fever.

Doubtful, by the look of consternation on the medic's face, but possible all the same.

"Something's causing his fever." Trent shrugged. "Gotta decide staples, stitches or glue and he's allergic to Dermabond. Could be as simple as his body fighting the staples." He was digging in his backpack. "Had you stayed with him, he would've taken meds and maybe his fever wudda come down."

"I thoroughly cleaned both." Vic said testily. "And I'm like, two doors down."

"He's not gonna take anything from people he doesn't know."

"What else did you do to him?" Metal asked.

"He knows them!"

True, he did, but Trent thought it more likely Clay had confused the two ladies with the trio of women who had rescued him from the river. He had accepted their help, been medicated with simple medication that he reacted negatively too, and had run all-terrain hills for a month for doing so.

"This look like a rash to you?" Trent asked Metal, who moved closer, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the medic, heads together as they looked closely at Clay's red skin.

"He does look kinda pinkish."

"Say, oh, about two hours ago, wouldn't you say Liz? No, maybe longer? Been a long night you know." Mrs. Bonsky shot Vic a look. "Elizabeth didn't want to leave him alone, has some half-baked notion, if he was out of our sights, we'd – what'd you say Liz? – lose him? We switch every hour….."

Trent and Metal adopted the same impatient look, the same stance, the same tilt to their heads.

"…..one naps, while the other keeps him in our sights. Not as young as we used to be….." She chattered on. "Course, you blink, and quick as that…." She snapped her fingers. "He was out of bed and on the bathroom floor. Why, I tell you, the little bugger can move! He's quick. I've raised many children, and let me say, if I ever had one like him, I'd….."

Exasperated, Trent cut her off. "Do you have a point?"

She did not like being cut off, glared. "He knuckles his ear."

"Which one?"

"Left."

Trent cleaned off Clay's skin, patted it dry, applied steri-strips, taped gauze pads over both wounds. "Bend your leg."

No response.

"Spenser, lift your leg."

Nothing.

"Say the word, I'll sling him over my shoulder." Metal said seriously. "Put him in the canoe, we can tie off to it, walk alongside, swim when we gotta."

Mrs. Bonsky eyes widened. A canoe? They'd come here in a canoe? In this wind, the current, the rain? Good Lord, they had to be cold, hungry, exhausted. Neither had bothered to change, dry off or ask for food.

Trent nodded, but he wasn't ready for such a move. Yet. And he was hoping it wouldn't become necessary. If he could just figure out why Clay was groggy, and mostly unresponsive, he was confident all would be well, right where they were.

They were safe here. Sheltered. Protected. Comfortable. Had food, water and plenty of people to keep an eye on Clay.

"Wanna go see if you can maybe route some electric to this room?" Trent asked him "A/C would be great."

Metal nodded. Vic fumed.

"Him, you ask. Me, you just order around."

"Lopez, enough." Trent said wearily. "I'm too tired for your shit." He pushed wet, muddy hair out of his eyes. "First, I call him friend, I can depend on him. Second, he outranks me. Third, I don't like you."

Betty turned her head to hide her smirk. Mrs. Bonsky chuckled out loud.

"Anything we can do?" Betty asked.

"He usually can be bribed with a milkshake." Trent said, turned to Mrs. Bonsky. "He likes flavored ice chips. We usually have the nursing staff freeze cherry Sprite or 7-Up."

He waited, Mrs. Bonsky looked around. Up, down, all around, back at Trent.

"What are you looking at me for?" She demanded.

"Uh, nursing staff?"

"Who?"

"You." He pointed.

"I'mma what?" She took up at a battle stance. "Now see here, you….."

"Mom?" Betty crossed the room, took her mother's elbow, escorted her to the door Metal held open for them. "Go with Metal. See if you can find the waitress Tabitha. Tell her it's for Clay. She'll help you get whatever you ask for."

"I've had about enough Elizabeth! I have been up all night, changing sheets and finding towels and dragging the boy off that disgusting floor and _he_ regulates _me_ to the kitchen!? Who does he think he is, come in and give everyone orders?! I will not have it! I will not, I say!"

"When one of the team is down, Trent here, is in charge." Metal gallantly offered his arm to a still complaining Mrs. Bonsky. "Even the high and mighty Bravo One follows his orders." The door closed behind them, leaving Vic with an openly hostile Trent and, I-don't-care-what-happens, Betty.

"What?" Vic demanded, hands on his hips. He wasn't going to let anyone fully blame him for what happened. Yes, he'd shot Clay, but his teammate was okay, and he never should have been out in the weather in the first place, and if he hadn't been, he wouldn't have been shot. He was irritable, tired, on edge and sick of getting the shit-end of the stick, so yeah, he felt Clay was partially to blame, and he stupidly told Trent so.

Trent's fisted left hand shot out. Vic's head snapped back.

If Trent had popped him in the mouth like Clay had, he'd need a dentist. As it was, taking the blow on his cheek bone, he wouldn't be seeing outta his left eye for a good week.

"The hell!" Vic rocked back, stumbled into the dresser.

Before Trent could advance, before Vic could charge:

"Trent?" Clay, sitting up in bed, said miserably, "I feel awful."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fall is my favorite season, and the weather has been soooo nice here in Maryland, all I want to do, is play outside. With Covid keeping us close to home, I've been outside soooo much!
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving! Be safe Everyone!

"DAMMIT!" Vic flailed, fought to keep his feet. If he was going to engage in a brawl with Trent, now was the time to do it; the medic was tired after battling a hurricane to get here.

"Stop this at once!" Betty commanded. "Both of you! Now is not the time for fighting!"

In motion, fisted hands bobbing by his hips as he stepped towards Vic who had yet to completely recover his balance, Trent wavered, cast a side-eyed glance at Clay, who, palms against his cheeks, listed dangerously to the left.

He advanced on Vic, retreated, took a step forward….'cause being so god-damned tired, if he was going to attack, get and keep the upper hand, he needed to…...Clay slumped further left.

His fists uncurled. No, now was not the time. Not here, in front of his Lt. Commander's wife, and not while Clay, who didn't look at all coherent, was about to topple off the bed.

"Do you?" Trent cleared his throat, backed away from Vic, but the look he shot Bravo's newest teammate promised they'd finish 'this' later.

"Mmm..I'm….hot." Clay swayed, dipped forward. Trent thought the kid was going to lie down, but nope, he did indeed do as Trent feared he would – toppled right off the side of the bed and hit the floor with a resounding thud.

Trent sighed, shook his head. "Great."

Hauling him off the floor without help wouldn't be easy. Oh, it could be done, but Trent was exhausted, and he ached, his arms were rubbery from maneuvering a fucking canoe through severe flooding with a strong current caused by a once-in-a-century hurricane…another sigh and he moved around the bed.

Life with Clay.

"You hurt anywhere?" He squatted down, roll of self-adhesive, elastic wrap in his hand. "On your back, raise your leg." He gave Clay's bare thigh a smart, stinging slap. "Roll over."

"OW!" The kid yelped, twisted awkwardly when Trent tried to bend his leg until his foot was flat on the floor, without turning over onto his back. He rubbed his face against the carpet as Trent quickly and efficiently wrapped his thigh. "….hot…."

"Uh-huh." Trent tore off the end of the tape, gave Clay's thigh a more affectionate pat rather than another hard slap. "Should hold." He looked at Betty. "Can you run a bath? Should still be some warm water in the pipes. Don't want it hot anyway." She nodded, entered the bathroom. "Gonna cool you down, gotta gimme a minute though." He told Clay. "Okay? You with me?" He waited, no response. "Course not."

"Is that tape really water proof? It's not, is it?" Vic snarked. "You expect it to work? Seriously?"

Trent ignored him, syringe Vic hadn't seen him pick up, between his teeth. "Gonna feel a pinch." He told Clay, swabbed his arm with an antiseptic wipe. "Don't you pull away from me." He reprimanded, his tone sharp enough, Clay stopped trying to tug his arm free from his grasp. "Stay still."

Vic moved around the bed, watched Trent adjust the light, inject Clay in the bend of his left arm, who, so accustomed to getting shots, didn't even flinch.

"What's that?"

"Paracetamol."

"In English?"

"Acetaminophen."

"So, Tylenol. You couldn't just say that?" He mocked. "He has a whole bottle of it in his first aid kit." He wrapped some melting ice in a washcloth, held it to his eye, couldn't help but add, "You know." God, he hated being ignored.

Trent, still holding onto his anger with Vic, very nearly snapped. Vein throbbing visibly in his neck, he managed to keep his temper.

Barely.

"I know every fucking item in his kit." He got out. "I pack it." He reached for Clay's ankle. "And for every member on the team."

"Not gonna work any faster, right?" Vic asked exasperated.

"Nope."

"Then, why?" Prodding the swollen skin around his eye, he paused. "Wait, you don't pack mine."

Trent's smile was terrifying. And further pissed off Vic, who forgot all about needles, shots, his aching eye, as Trent's insult hit home.

"So…hey…..what are you….are you saying, you don't consider me a member of the team? Is that what you mean?"

"How deep do you want this water?" Betty called out. She didn't need to know but she wanted to head off a potential fistfight. She wasn't naïve. Trent would start it; Vic wouldn't back down and it wouldn't end until either one of them was unconscious or Metal had returned and broken it up.

"Grab his other leg." Trent ordered, then snarked. "Careful, someone shot him, he's a bit touchy."

"Fuck you." Vic retorted, approached Clay with trepidation. He wasn't convinced Clay would let him near him now that Trent was there to baby him, but the sniper didn't seem to care where Vic was or what he was trying to do. Vic didn't want to make him wince or cry out, because it would be held against him for doing so. He'd be accused of being rough and causing pain, when he'd done no so such thing on purpose.

"You drop him, I'll end you."

Vic flipped him off, helped lift Clay, who didn't particularly care for being picked up, off the floor. He said nothing, but he didn't stop resisting until Trent shushed him with a stern: 'shut the fuck up and stay the fuck still', accompanied by a hard pinch to his bicep.

"Anything I can get you?" Betty asked, stepping aside as they carried Clay into the bathroom, swung him over the tub, let him down gently but hard enough, the water sloshed.

"Do I have your 'permission' to 'vacate' the room?" Vic asked sarcastically.

Trent didn't care for the tone, but was preoccupied with Clay who stopped protesting once the cool water lapped over his belly, gratefully went limp under the water, sought its welcoming coolness.

"Christ, not even you can breathe under water." Trent admonished, pulled his head up by his hair. "You go'n drown, Jason will have me running rough terrain." He helped Clay adjust his position in the tub. "And unlike you, I don't enjoy jumping fallen trees and leaping creeks."

Vic snorted. Jason reprimand the oh-so-know-it-all medic? Highly unlikely.

"You got something to say?" Trent demanded, struggling with Clay to keep his head above water. "Spenser, so help me, you make me get in that tub with you, you won't see your apartment for six months." He yanked Clay's head up a third time, gave his head a shake. "Enough!"

Clay blinked, spurted water in a perfect imitation of a fountain in Trent's direction, laid his head against the side of the tub, let his eyes close. God, he was hot and uncomfortable. He was sooooo tired of being sticky, his arms sticking to his chest or side, he just wanted to be cool.

"Uh, dry towels? Ibuprofen, some water." Trent returned his attention to Betty. "Thanks."

"Ibuprofen for what?" Vic asked derisively. "You just shot him up with Tylenol."

"Lopez, so help me, you don't get out of my sight, Metal will have to peel you off the floor." Trent threatened. "Get. Lost."

Betty handed Trent a dry towel, couple washcloths, took Vic's arm, maneuvered him out the door.

"Give me a few minutes." She told Trent, pulled the door closed behind her to give the men privacy. "You shouldn't edge him on." She said to Vic, started to remake the bed, the lights flickered, remained on. She heard the hum of the a/c unit as it kicked on, then felt blessed cool air. "He has a quick temper."

"Sure." Vic muttered, adjusted the flow of the air. "Nothing can't be achieved, it's for Spenser." She thought she knew Trent better than he did? Oh, he begged to differ.

She shot him a dirty look, shook the pillow into a fresh pillowcase. "You really don't stop, do you?"

"What?"

"You've already been punched in the face by two of your present teammates. You trying for the third?" Now that Clay was under the capable care of Trent, she fully intended to seek her own bed. "We're good here, you can go. And if you keep pushing Trent, you'll deserve what you get."

"He's not in charge here. Anyone is, it'd be Metal." He didn't want to go. He wanted to remain in the air-conditioning. "And he's not, 'cause this isn't a job. We're on stand-down med leave."

"And yet, here you are, escorting two ladies to a senior spa." She shook her head, found a bottle of water, the ibuprofen, knocked on the door, entered when Trent granted her entrance. "We're going to get something to eat, take a nap." She told him. "I have Clay's sat phone, I'll try to reach Eric, sleep in Mom's room, feel free to use mine. Room 214."

"Thanks." He teased – bullied – Clay into swallowing three ibuprofens by pinching his nostrils together until his mouth popped so he could breathe, then flooding it with water. "Go ahead, you little prick, not gonna win."

Betty was impressed how long, in Clay's addled state, he was able to hold his breath, marveled over Trent's patience waiting him out.

"Drink some more." Trent encouraged him, but failed. The kid refused and it wasn't worth an all-out battle. Although Clay was still too warm, and he didn't like the red rash, he let it go, set the bottle of water aside. "You win, for now."

Before Betty could get the phone and leave, the door opened, and Metal returned with Mrs. Bonsky. Neither knocked, just entered the room with the use of a key card she hadn't seen either of them take with them.

"Rain's let up." Her mother announced, looked around. "Where is he? Don't say that surly medicine man stuck him in that rat-trap canoe! Why, I'll tan his hide….."

"In here." Betty waved from the bathroom doorway. "He's in good hands Mom, let's go to bed."

"Bed? Now? It's morning. Are you ill? Have you caught what ails him?"

"No." Betty said firmly. "But Metal and Trent are going to want to shower, get something to eat, rest a while. Do you want to leave Clay to Vic's care, or would you rather get a bite to eat, sit with him when they go clean up, catch a nap?" She didn't see herself succeeding in prying her mother away from Clay for longer than a few moments anytime soon. "We've been up all night, Mom."

"Bah!" Her mother deposited what she was carrying in her arms – towels, sheets, washcloths – on the dresser, headed to the door. "They put cherry 7-Up in the freezer for him. Tabitha is very accommodating; she will bring it up when it's frozen. For now, she sent lemonade slush. Apparently, their fresh squeezed, homemade lemonade is 'concentrate' from a frozen can." She waggled her head. "Harrumph, you can bet I'll be having a word with the manager about that!"

Metal nodded with a frown. "Tub? He's awake?" He held a cup in each hand, set the lemonade slush on the dresser, crossed the room, rap-a-tap-rapped on the open door, stepped around Betty, entered with the milkshake. Vic waited for the verbal protest from Trent, sounds of splashing from Clay, but all remained quiet.

He fumed. He'd been thrown out of the bathroom, but Metal could just stroll in. He bet if he tried it, he'd have two black-eyes.

The door was firmly closed.

"Vic?" Betty headed to the door that led to the hallway. "I don't believe your presence here is required any longer."

Mrs. Bonsky caught sight of Vic's puffy, rapidly turning black and blue eye, cackled at his discomfort. "Came out on the losing side of the fisticuffs, eh?"

Vic glared, lip curled in disgust. Fisticuffs? The hell!

"Mom! Honestly, you're as bad as he is! Out!"

()()()

"Talk to me." Metal was sitting on the toilet, Trent on the side of the tub. Clay held the cold cup with both hands, played with the stray, took a sip now and again. "Lopez run into a door?"

"Left fist."

"Not even gonna try'n deny it then" He waited, moved on when Trent remained stubbornly silent. "Why we playin' Flo Nightingale this time?"

"Thinking it's an allergy to something."

It? What the hell was 'it'? "What makes you think that?" He asked calmly. "Haven't been with him all that long."

"The rash. His eyes."

His eyes? What the hell was wrong with the little shit's eyes? Metal leaned closer to the tub for a better look, squinted in the dim light, pulled a flashlight, peered into Clay's face – who didn't like the invasive light, raised a hand to cover his eyes – huh, the skin around the kid's eyes was dry, scaly, pulled tight, red.

"The hell Trent? Allergies cause moist, watery eyes. Not dry."

"And chloral hydrate is a sedative." Trent pointed out, then offered. "He never reacts like modern medicine says he should."

Metal nodded. He hadn't been with Bravo on that mission, but he'd heard rumors – courtesy of Summer, of course. When Jason had offered him a place on his team, and he'd asked Bravo One about the incident….Jason had held nothing back. Not on that event, or any other, and while Metal had always thought the rumor was exaggerated, he'd soon been set straight.

"Anything we need to worry about?" Metal asked. Clay dropped the cup, Trent patiently handed it back to him. "He even drinking any of that?"

"Take it away from him." Trent dared. "Go ahead, I dare you."

Metal's expression was uncertain, finally decided not to take the challenge. "Is he okay?"

"Gave him a shot of Paracetamol, some ibuprofen, should bring his fever down, half hour or so."

Metal, unlike Vic, simply nodded, didn't question why the medic had chosen to give Clay an injection of Tylenol. If the medic saw fit to give the kid a shot, who the hell was he to question it?

"Not what I asked." He reached around Trent, laid his palm – something he never, in his life, thought he'd do – against his teammate's forehead. "He feels hot," He mused, missed Trent's knowing smile who got up to retrieve a washcloth he didn't need so Metal wouldn't see his face. The sight of the big, gruff 'killer' trying to be tender, made him snicker.

"Dunno, with him, could be anything, I'm just guessing." He pushed a hand through mud caked, now dry hair. "Don't like how hot he is – his skin is. Rash is probably resistant to the antibiotics I have with me."

"You give him any yet?"

"Nope."

Metal didn't question why. "Rash? That why he's all pinkish? You think it's a rash?" The medic nodded. "Just, from what?"

"Welcome to my world." He grinned tiredly. "Go get me something to eat, then find Vic's room, shower and change. You can sit with him so I can go. I itch."

"The ladies will watch him, we put him to bed." Metal was already moving, had no objections to obeying the orders. Not at a time like this.

"Once he's asleep, maybe."

"He's, uh, gonna be outta the tub by then, right?"

"I ain't straining my back, getting him out on my own."

Aah, so Trent didn't want Vic's help. "Roger that." He opened the door, paused, hand still on the doorknob, because arguing between Vic and Mrs. Bonsky erupted from the other room. "Little ole spitfire, ain't she?"

"She doesn't back down." Trent agreed tiredly, rubbed the back of his neck, looked longingly at the tub of cool water. Soon.

"….boo-hoo, he fell off a bike….."

"You wrecked him!"

"…..and slid down a hill…."

"Aah, he fell off a _cliff_!"

"….got a bruise…"

"He came up lame!"

"….blame me, he lost his balance, fell into a railing…."

"Well, duh! Because you pushed him!"

"…..always polite, always courteous, gotta help everyone…."

"Well, you don't, so someone needs to."

"….the hell I don't!"

"Really? You do? When?"

"…..their job is to wait….."

"You gave him a mud bath!"

"…..he hit me…!"

"Did you, or did you not, shove him?"

"…can't keep his feet…"

"You ran the poor girl over!"

"….like it was my fault….."

"Because. It. Was."

"….don't go laying the guilt trip on me! He's….."

"You. Shot. Him."

"…he's fucking fine….OW!"

"He has two holes in his leg!"

"…..you whack me one more time…I'll…."

Trent's ears perked up. There it was again, mud. He got up, waved at Metal, "Don't let him dunk his head." He left the bathroom. "What did you say?"

"Who?"

"You."

"What?"

"What did you say?"

"About what?"

"Mud."

"What about it?"

" ** _What_**?! **_Mud_**?!"

"Don't you raise your voice at me. I can hear just fine." Mrs. Bonsky sniffed. "Victor pushed him into the mud pits yesterday morning."

"Mud?" Trent repeated. "Pit?" He turned to Betty for an explanation.

"The mud baths in the massage room." She explained. "For relaxation, therapy."

"Baths? So sunken?" The ladies nodded. "He went under?"

Everyone looked at Vic.

"What does it matter?" He scoffed. "For Pete's sake, it's fucking water!"

"So, yes?" Vic scowled, nodded, Trent turned his back on him. "You said he knuckles his ear?" He asked Mrs. Bonsky. He hadn't yet seen Clay do so, but that didn't matter.

"You didn't seem to care about that earlier! I…."

" ** _Which….Ear_**?!" Good grief, if she wasn't the mother-in-law of the man who could banish him to the furthest edges of the North Pole, he'd shake her by her shoulders until her dentures fell out.

"Must you yell?" She crossed her arms, refused to answer until Betty scolded her. "FINE! The left."

"…..catering…rich…ladies" Trent turned away, muttering under his breath about public spas, old lady resorts and cheap-ass mud most likely harvested from the lake.

"Now see here, this is a top-rated, exclusive spa!" Riled up, Mrs. Bonsky was on his heels, waved off his reminder the lemonade was frozen. "That's beside the point! I assure you, that mud is clean! It has a beautiful aroma and…..!"

"Clean mud? Are you daft?"

"Daft? DAFT!?" A pillow went flying, Trent ducked. "You're calling me daft?"

"MOM!"

"Now, now, hey." Metal interrupted from the bathroom doorway. "Calm down, can't go throwing pillows 'less you're scantily clad. Ain't that right, Trent?"

Preoccupied with his med pack and a small notepad he pulled from it, Trent merely grunted.

"…wish I cudda seen it. Had'ta been a sight. Blackburn in a pillow fight with these women who…."

Betty blinked, caught on quickly. Scantily clad? "The harem?" She questioned dubiously.

" _You_ know about that?" Vic asked surprised. "Hell!"

"Apparently not all." Betty crossed her arms. Huh, she didn't much care for this 'feeling', she was feeling. "He never said anything about who was wearing what." Kinda felt like….jealously. Her husband had conveniently left out that little tidbit of information from the story he'd regaled her with. She understood he told her more than he should, more details than were allowed about his job, the team, their missions, but now she realized, there was oh-so-much-more, he didn't share.

Like details.

"Pfft." Trent snorted, some sort of cap between his teeth. "Wisps of see-thru gauze. Might as well not have worn anything."

"Quinn said the kid was so damn slippery from all that oil, Boss couldn't even hold on to him."

"He most definitely did not say anything about wisps of cloth." Betty stated. "He said, and I quote, 'they were dressed like I Dream of Jeannie'."

"Oh. Uh. Yeah. They were. Sure." Trent's grin was in no way convincing. "Shudda seen what Spenser was wearing." He returned to consulting his notepad. "Huh."

"Wait, how do you know about that?" Vic demanded. He only knew what he'd read in the reports he'd been allowed access to, and nothing had been written about clothing, or lack of. "Classified, you know."

"Wasn't a mission." Betty corrected him. "The Sheikh was a civilian and not under surveillance."

"Hell, took Ellis days to find out who he was." Metal offered.

Trent was digging through his med pack, withdrew an otoscope, several packages and packets, a bottle, some tweezers, wads of cotton, turned and bumped into Mrs. Bonsky who was dancing on her toes, ducking and stretching, trying to see what was in his hands.

"What is that? Lemme see. You have an ear scope? But of course, you do." She tut-tutted. "I suppose that cost $800.00 as well?"

"More like fourteen." Trent none-too-gently set her aside, continued to the bathroom where Metal had retreated. "Don't you, like, need a nap or something?"

She ignored him. "You see? Do you see Liz? _That_ is why our military budget is in the billions! Billions! Fourteen hundred dollars for a simple device to look into an ear? $29.99 at the corner drugstore not good enough?!" The bathroom door slammed closed. "Hey! Where'd he….? Don't you walk away from me! Come back here!"

Metal greeted him with a grin when he closed the door with his foot. "S'up? What'd'ya go'n do out there?"

"Just wanna check his ears."

"Gonna ignore me about the pissed off ole lady, then?" Metal chuckled, let it go. "Why his ears?"

"He was submerged in mud."

"So?

"He's Clay."

Apparently, 'he's Clay' was the only answer he was going to get, because despite his prompt of, 'And?', he got nothing more.

On his knees, Trent leaned across the tub, took the milkshake away, handed it to Metal. Clay squawked in protest, inadvertently splashing Trent when he moved in a failed attempt to snatch it back.

"Stay still," he admonished, "and you can have it back." Irritated, Clay splashed harder, earned a smack atop his head. "He ain't gonna drink any."

Clay wasn't happy, didn't want to cooperate. Metal wondered how the little shit wudda behaved, if he'd been the one to take the milkshake away from him, decided he didn't want, or need, to know.

"Gonna deny you pain meds on the trip home, you splash me one more time." Trent seethed. The water made the dried mud, moist. Eewww. He caught the hand towel Metal tossed him, wiped his face. God, he wanted a shower.

Clay finally submitted to Trent. Sprawled awkwardly in the tub, he allowed the medic to turn his head by a punishing grip on his chin, insert the scope into his right ear, repeat the process with this left ear.

"Betcha he can straight through." Metal teased Clay, returned the milkshake to his hands. "You with us yet?"

He wasn't. So he didn't protest when a giant ass Q-tip was plunged into his left ear….but Mrs. Bonsky sure did.

"What do you think you're doing? You're not supposed to do that." She was trying to get around Betty to enter the bathroom. "You can't go around sticking things in people's ears!"

"I closed the door. I know I did." Trent told Metal whose shit-eating grin only made him more irritable. "Not a word outta you."

"Here now, don't do that." Mrs. Bonsky ordered. "That is not safe. You could do more damage than good."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" She countered.

"Look lady…" He caught his attitude, pulled up short. "….ma'am…..you…."

"Alrighty then," Metal crowded Mrs. Bonsky backward through the bathroom door, made his escape. "Why don't you show me where Vic's room is, I'll shower. You and Vic can find Trent something to eat."

Vic bristled, just couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Trent can find his way to the dining….OW!" He cupped his stinging ear. "The hell Metal! What the hell was that for?"

"You don't get movin' your ass out that door, I'm gonna smack ya a'gin." Metal gave him a shove. "You want two black eyes? No? Then move your ass."

Betty retrieved the sat phone, followed the arguing trio from the room.

Trent didn't expect Metal back anytime soon - figured he was uncomfortable taking care of Clay, though, if he had to, he would. And he didn't want to see Vic again at all.

"Okay kid." He thoroughly swabbed both ears, flushed with saline, dried with tufts of cotton. "Ready to get out?" He reached for Clay, who sunk deeper into the water. "No? 'course not."

Clay might be content, comfortable where he was, but Trent sure wasn't. His clothes had dried stiff, his hair was a matted mess and he desperately wanted both a shower, and clean clothes.

Since Clay was quiet, mostly likely asleep, Trent managed to sit still long enough to eat the plate of sliced apples, chunks of cheese, salty crackers, and bowl of fresh, cut various fruits that Mrs. Bonsky brought back, occasionally splashing water on Clay, then called it quits.

He'd had enough, couldn't take it any longer.

Clay's temperature was down to 101.8 and Trent felt confident coaxing him into swallowing a couple of Amoxicillin, decided he could remain in the tub a bit longer simply because he was just too tired to drag the kid out on his own.

The ole battleaxe hadn't left, was puttering around the room, putting the bed to rights. If she insisted on remaining, she could damn well do something useful.

"HEY!"

Bristling over being summoned in such a rude manner, Mrs. Bonsky took her time making her way into the bathroom. "What are you giving him now?" She demanded.

Trent rubbed the back of his neck….man, she did not quit. "Antibiotic."

"So, Amoxicillin? For a fever?" She glared down her nose at him disdainfully. "You really think that's going to have any affect?"

"For the rash." Why did everyone always assume every antibiotic was Amoxicillin? Even if it was!?

"What rash?"

"He tries and dunk his head under the water, pull him up by his hair." Trent advised, was sure she'd do just that, if it required being done. "Just," he paused, "Leave his hair on his head, 'k? He won't look good with a bald spot." He didn't ask, just assigned her the job of watching Clay.

Miffed, she shot him a look, stomped a foot impatiently.

"He likes it, you soak a washcloth, let it drip over his head, wring it out." He handed her the half empty milkshake. "He might take it from you, or try some water. Might not."

"It's gotta be warm by now." She waved him out. "Go. Go on. Get gone."

"My get up n go, got up an' went." He yawned, Lordy, he needed a nap. "Just gonna take a shower, change."

"Now what are you nattering on about?"

Trent shook his head. Another yawn, and he headed to the door. "Need help with him, Metal's in Vic's room."

"Go, go.….we'll be fine."

()()()

Trent, fed, showered, and dressed in dry shorts and t-shirt, returned to Clay's room. Whether or not the kid was ready or willing to get out of the tub, his ass was getting out.

He was tired. He needed a decent meal, not just a snack, and several hours of sleep before his muscles would recover from maneuvering a canoe in gale force winds and a very strong current.

Metal had assumed the position in the rear of the canoe so Trent hadn't had to expend as much energy - he was currently sprawled on the floor under the window, sound asleep with a full belly - but even so, Trent was exhausted and he wanted to go to bed.

Mrs. Bonsky was perched on the side of the tub, patiently feeding Clay lemonade slush from a spoon, wiping his chin and face with a cloth, moaning about his unsanitary beard and sticky lemonade.

Hey! Lookit that! Progress. "Spense?"

Clay stirred, sloshing water as he tried to push up from his current slumped position in response to the authoritative voice. Once he moved, he decided he was cold, uncomfortable, and annoyingly wet, and wanted out of the tub, but he also wanted more lemonade. He held his tongue out. Mrs. Bonsky obligingly gave him another spoonful.

"Time to get out."

"N'um…w'at?"

"Hey, stay still." Trent cautioned him when his hand slipped and he went down on his elbow with a splash. "You slip and fall, crack you chin, I'll have to say Vic did it."

"I'll give you space." She stood up, patted Clay on his wet head when he pulled a pout over the loss of the lemonade. "You can have more once you're back in bed."

Trent shook his head in disbelief. Apparently, Clay had made another conquest.

Clay heard the timber of a deep voice, but not the words, rolled his head to locate and identify its owner. He blinked against the dim light, waited for his eyes to adjust and focus – ah, Trent.

"I ….out…?"

"Yup," Trent waited, Clay flailed, palms gripping the side of the tub as he tried to stand. "Gimme a minute." He stood, circled an arm around Clay's back, held tight, helped him stand. "I said wait. Dammit Spense." He knew if he called for Metal, he'd be awake and in the bathroom in seconds. "You good? Dizzy?"

Clay heard the voice, not the words, lifted his foot before Trent was prepared to support his weight…..both crashed backwards into the tub….a thump, a thud, a cry, a curse, a splash, and Metal was there, bodily picking Clay up and moving him off Trent.

Betty was on his heels, blanket in hands that she used to wrap around Clay's shoulders, followed Metal who half-carried Clay to the bed.

Mrs. Bonsky offered Trent a towel when he stood up, shook off, stepped out of the tub.

"Go." She waved him on. "I'll clean up this mess." She released the drain.

Toweling his hair, Trent joined Metal by the bed, where Clay lay sprawled on his back, twisted in the blanket, as Betty used a towel to pat him dry.

"Fever down?" Metal asked.

He reached for the thermometer. "100.7."

"Still think it's an allergic reaction?"

"To the mud, yeah."

"Mud?" Vic heaved an aggrieved sigh. "Really? Come on man, really?"

"Who let him back in here?"

"Only room with a/c."

"So?"

"You're going to leave him in wet drawers?" Mrs. Bonsky frowned.

"Wet what?" Vic asked confused. "You know what she's talking about?"

"Underwear." Metal huffed. "Are you really that dense?"

"Why you always gotta be a dick?"

"Enough." Betty pleaded wearily. "We're all tired."

"He's not." Trent pointed out. "He left Clay with you and slept all night."

"Then he can stay with him now, while we catch a nap." Metal eyed Vic, dared him to protest. He didn't.

"I don't want him anywhere near the kid." Trent spoke up. "I'm gonna go change, lie down for a while."

"I'll stay." Metal nodded. "I like the a/c."

Trent cast a look at the nest of pillow, blanket, sleeping bag - wondered where it came from - on the floor under the window. "Need me, come get me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more short chapter to wrap it up...of course Eric has to come get his guys...


	8. Chapter 8

Dismayed, Metal voiced a whiney protest. "Whoa, wait. You gonna leave me with him like that? Uh, all wet? Shouldn't he, I dunno, get dressed?"

Trent snorted. Dear God, Metal could snap a neck, gut a man, disrespect a dead body, but a near-naked teammate rattled his delicate sensibilities?! Pfft. "Toss a blanket over him."

Mrs. Bonsky tugged on the wet elastic of Clay's briefs, swatted at his hands when he batted at hers.

"I'm not leaving." Vic was arguing. "If Metal's gonna babysit Spenser, I'll sleep here on the floor."

"And you're gonna change the bandage on his leg too, aren't you?" Metal asked. "Don't say I am." Stranded in the jungle, marooned in the desert, confined in a plane, on a boat, he could; wrap a limb, bandage an injury, effectively slap on a chest seal, stop someone from bleeding out by applying a tourniquet. Dry clothes? Most certainly not!

"You're not staying." Trent said firmly. "Since you slept all night, you get to scout, see what the damage is. Wind stopped, rain let up, I wanna know if leaving is gonna be easy."

"You don't give orders," Vic began hotly, but Metal stood up, crossed his arms over his chest. "You ain't…."

"I do." Metal forgot about wet underwear and soggy bandages. "Now go do what Trent told you to."

Mrs. Bonsky blinked. Men! Goodness. Whining and childish one moment, authoritative and bossy the next. And _they_ protected her country? Goo Lord, how was she ever supposed to get another good nights sleep?!

Vic glared. He hadn't slept 'all night'. He'd caught a nap, sure, but no, he hadn't slept for any great length of time. And he did not want to go schlepping around outside.

"No." He replied steadily. "We're not on a job and I don't have to follow orders," he paused, gained confidence. "Or do anything he – you – tells me to do."

Metal raised a hand to ward off Trent, a warning to let him handle it.

"You're right. You don't. But your stay here is being paid for by the Navy, so vacate your room, these premises and don't let me see your face again."

"What?" Vic sputtered. "You can't be serious!"

"I didn't stutter and you ain't deaf. Get gone."

"And go where?"

"Don't know, don't care."

Vic knew Metal lacked the authority to ban him from the premises, but the man could, and very likely would, make his life difficult once they returned to active duty if he didn't agree to 'get gone'.

"Why you gotta treat me like this?" He demanded.

"Because you little bugger, you're ill-mannered and rude," Mrs. Bonsky began, but-butted him quiet. "You lack compassion, possess no empathy, think you're better than….."

"Mom."

"Oh, I'm just getting started."

"I think you're done."

"I'm no nervous ninny. I'll lay it out for him, what's he gonna do to me?" She sniffed haughtily. "About time someone told him exactly what…."

"Mom!"

Mrs. Bonsky looked ready to erupt, but held her tongue. For a few seconds.

"He struts around like a coc….."

" _MOM_!"

"….rooster…." She glared at her daughter who insisted on being particularly troublesome today. "Better?"

"Because you don't do as your told," Trent started. "Which…."

"I would have started with, because you _shot_ him, but whatever." Mrs. Bonsky butted in.

"…was accompany and watch," He continued, was interrupted yet again.

"Not shove him into a railing." Mrs. Bonsky beamed smugly. "Or vat of mud."

"….let him rest," He glared at the elderly lady who ignored him.

"Which is not the definition of - jump, shrieking out of the bushes."

"MOM!" Betty covered her face with her hands. Dear God, never again would she go on vacation with her mother. Well, not anytime soon anyway.

"…..watch him." Trent glared at his 'boss's' mother-in-law, who had the audacity to grin cheekily right back at him. "How hard is that?" He finished.

About to snap, Vic sneered. "I ain't no fucking babysitter and if he needs one so damn much, he shouldn't have the job he does."

"Your role on the team is whatever Jason says it is." Metal pointed out. "On a job, a mission, deployment, at home, or accompanying your Lt. Commander's wife and mother-in-law to a spa resort. You do as you're told."

"Yeah, see, no." Vic said firmly. "Not at home. No." And he could, most likely would, argue that up the chain of command and he would win. "Just...no."

"This is Bravo, Jason doesn't understand the meaning of the word, 'no'," Metal waved Trent silent. "You wanna know why you aren't treated equally on this team? That right there. That's why. No one one this team says, no. It's called, loyalty."

"I'm beginning to understand why Summer transferred out."

"Just beginning to? Didn't think you were _that_ stupid." Trent took pity on Metal's discomfort, flipped open a knife, sliced through the soggy, elastic bandage on Clay's thigh with one swipe. "You do what's best for the team. It's we, not me."

"I've had enough from you." Vic fingered his eye, that all of a sudden, wanted to throb. "Your position on the team is medic, that's it, nothing more. Dunno why Jason lets you get away with your attitude, but…."

Trent moved around the bed, knife pointed at Vic, level with his throat, as he passed by. "Because of shit like this."

Metal crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow. "Need help finding the door?"

Vic stepped back from Trent's knife-wielding hand, that was just a tad too close for comfort, even though Trent wasn't within striking distance. "Shit like what? Spenser?"

"Right, sure." Metal nodded. "Just Spenser and nothing to do with you."

"Meaning?"

"Not reporting shooting your gun to your CO?"

Vic flushed red. Yeah, discharging his weapon in public was a no-no. "That's not why Blackburn sent you." He muttered. "Not my fault you're here." He paused. "How'd you get here so fast anyway?"

"Blackburn didn't send him." Trent cackled. "Jason did."

"It _is_ your fault!" Mrs. Bonsky chortled. "Because you _shot_ him!"

Vic's jaw visibly clenched, and his hands tightened into fists…God, he so wanted to tell that nosy-busy-body to shut up.

Metal's look revealed he knew what Vic was thinking, said 'go ahead, say it, I dare you'.

" **MOM**!"

"Because," Trent shot Mrs. Bonsky an evil glare, dared her to interrupt him one more time. She didn't. "…..you didn't bother to stay with him…."

She just couldn't help herself and, "After you shot him," popped right out of her mouth.

Metal swore he saw steam come out Trent's nostrils.

"…last night. If you had," another glare, she remained silent, but her mouth opened and closed once or twice – five times. "He'd have taken meds, his fever would've stayed down and we wouldn't've had to come here in a shitty canoe in the middle of the god-damn night, during a fucking hurricane."

"That's not my fault." Vic insisted. "I had it handled, you didn't need to come here." Jason had sent Metal? And Metal had obeyed? Yikes. "And what makes you so damn sure, he'd have taken anything from me?"

"Because he's ordered to." Packets and packages from his med pack in his hands, Trent turned away to tend to Clay's leg.

"By Jason, right?" Vic sneered. Christ he was so tired of having rules and orders only Bravo obeyed thrown in his face. You know, such as; having to shower after coming in from the field – and he didn't mean from baling hay. "Everyone just does whatever he says, no questions allowed."

"I'm counting to one," Metal's voice held an edge even Vic knew not to mess with.

Flustered, he didn't even bother to argue, just slammed out of the room.

"Glad to see the last of him." Mrs. Bonsky muttered. Clay yelped. "Now what are you doing to him?"

"He's just gonna sleep, right?" Metal eyed the bed as Trent finished squeezing a gel from a tube onto both bullet wounds, applied a large band-aid over both, wrapped the leg with an ace bandage. "Sawyer?" He prompted when the medic remained silent. He would leave his wife, navigate dangerous waters, risk his safety in bad weather, spare his teammate additional physical exertion, but 'nurse' Clay Spenser? Hell, he had limits.

Trent shrugged. "Might." He nodded at Mrs. Bonsky who hovered with a light blanket, allowed her to toss it over Clay and tuck him in. "Give him ibuprofen, his fever goes up, get him to drink."

"He don't need stitches?"

"Nah, bleeding's stopped, he's good." He had his own sat phone, left Clay in the capable hands of Metal and retreated to Betty's room for dry clothes, couple phone calls and a nap.

"You prick!" Metal called after him. "I'll find a way, make you pay!"

The door shut firmly.

"We'll be fine." Betty assured Metal who flipped the closed door the bird. "We've got him, get some sleep."

He didn't.

Because:

Clay didn't sleep.  
He fussed.  
His temperature went up slightly.  
He didn't want to drink.  
Or swallow pills.  
The red rash abated, but he wanted to itch, scratch his arms.  
Grew irritated when he was stopped.  
Metal thanked God several times, for Betty and Mrs. Bonsky.  
Because Betty had the patience of a Saint.  
And Mrs. Bonsky was content to do battle with the recalcitrant pain-in-the-ass.

Then Tabitha delivered cherry-flavored soda shaved into slivers of ice, and finally, Clay dressed in dry boxer briefs and a t-shirt – courtesy of Mrs. Bonsky's dogged determination – was content to obediently lick pink ice from a spoon when offered, and Metal was finally able to collapse onto his sleeping bag and with a warning not to startle Clay, be asleep in under a minute.

Mrs. Bonsky relaxed in the recliner, Betty went to check on both Trent and Vic.

Good Lord, if this little imp was one of her son-in-law's men, no wonder the man was: never home, always cranky, always preoccupied, attached to his phone, drank too much.

She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, Metal's gentle snoring ended with a snort, Betty sat at the desk, the door opened and with a slight tilt of his head, one eye opening the merest slit, Metal promptly went back to sleep.

"Hey," Trent entered, munching on an apple, banana in his other hand. "He settle down, go to sleep?"

"Somehow, I believe you knew he would." Mrs. Bonsky sniffed.

Trent grinned, stuck the apple between his teeth, put the back of his palm against Clay's cheek, nodded with satisfaction, then...backhanded him.

"Wake up, sunshine!"

Mrs. Bonsky jumped with a startled squeak. "You didn't just do that!"

"Oh, but I did." He teased and coaxed, cajoled and wheedled – bullied – until he got what he wanted – Clay awake.

"Nuff." Clay groaned, rolled away, hugged tight to the blanket. Trent stopped shaking, tickling, pinching, slapping, rolled the thermometer across his forehead. "S'op."

"Sssh, shush." Trent scolded. "Just a little of what you're gonna get for making me come get you."

"Here now, the boy is ill. You don't get to bully him."

"Still 101.7?" Betty asked, shushed her mother. "It rose slightly, but Scott said it wasn't enough to bother you."

"Yeah." He looked at his watch. Eh, time for a couple more Tylenol. "No, you don't." He reprimanded when Clay buried his head under the blanket. "Take these." He tugged the blanket. "Hey! Don't play with me."

Clay came up on an elbow, scratched his neck, accepted them, drank the water, glared, itched his arm, his shoulder.

"You itch?" Trent questioned. He nodded, laid back down. "A lot?"

"N'uff." His hand dug under his pillow, he frowned, searched with both hands. "Where's't?

"Now? You itch now? Not in the tub, not while you slept….now?" He withdrew a syringe from a pocket on his backpack, several bottles from another, chose one, returned the rest. He filled the syringe, set the bottle on the night stand. "Your gun is gone Spense, ain't gonna find it.

"Huh? 'h'why?"

Cap from the syringe between his teeth with the apple, Trent snorted. "You waved it in my face." He filled the syringe, the bottle disappeared. "Not getting it back either."

"How do you manage to speak so clearly with all that in your mouth?" Mrs. Bonsky made a disapproving face. "It's really unsanitary."

Trent made an obnoxious show of biting off another chuck of apple and chewing. "Say ow."

"What is that?" Mrs. Bonsky demanded as Trent swabbed an alcohol pad over a patch of skin, pinched Clay's arm to puff his deltoid muscle.

"Benadryl."

"Why didn't you give it to him before?"

"He wasn't exhibiting usual signs of an allergy."

That made little sense to her. "Doesn't it need to be refrigerated?" She didn't receive an answer.

"OW!" Clay griped when he was jabbed. He really didn't like shots, but he got them all the time. No one ever listened to what he wanted.

"They sell it over the counter in pill form, you know." She informed him. "You ever just walk into the corner drugstore, look for it on the shelf?"

Trent dug deep for patience. He didn't think he'd be getting rid of this old lady for a cat. "I do know. And I have."

"How do you know how much to give him? Did you read the instructions?" She knew he hadn't, she'd seen the bottle, watched him fill the syringe.

Trent snorted, choked. "Lady, I wrote the instructions."

She sniffed, miffed he'd one-upped her. "Well, then." She looked away. "Fine."

"His fever a result of the gunshot?" Betty asked. Trent looked much better, appeared more patient. Amazing what hot water, good food and a short nap could accomplish.

"Doubt it." He chucked the apple core into a trashcan, looked around for the banana he had at some point, put down somewhere. "Hit to his kidney sapped him a bit. Whether he feels it or not, it's painful. His headache was…."

"Undoubtedly from dealing with that little bugger." Mrs. Bonsky muttered under her breath.

"Most likely dehydration," Trent continued, glared at the older woman. Man, why him?! "Thinking he threw an allergic reaction to the mud."

"HA! I told you! Didn't I tell you?" Mrs. Bonsky crowed. "No one listens to me!" She paused, "Wait, what?"

"Allergic. Reaction. To. Mud." The banana peel joined the apple core in the trashcan. "How is that not clear to you?"

"You came to that conclusion on your own?" Mrs. Bonsky said dubiously. "Based on, what again? Did you find mud in his ears?"

"He's allergic to tree moss. He fell into mud. Do the math."

"Really? Moss in trees?" She sounded very doubtful. "You know that how?" Her eyes narrowed. "What makes you think there's 'moss from trees'," she rolled her eyes, "in the spa's therapeutic mud?"

"Cause...appened' fore..." Clay yawned, "I...snipe. Go high."

"And that means what?"

"He spends a lot of time in trees."

"Lotsa moss in...trees." Clay rubbed his eyes, licked dry lips, made a face. Blah.

"So, you're telling me...what you're saying is...his fever, his unresponsiveness, was due to an allergic reaction to tree moss most likely in the mud Vic pushed him into?" She shook her head. "And not being shot?"

"Yup."

"And a simple shot of Benadryl would have made him all better? Eric couldn't just say that on the phone?" She threw her hands up. "The doctor could have given him the shot. No need to send you here in the dead of night, during a hurricane, in a _canoe_! MEN!"

"We wouldn't have known that Mom. Or known what was safe for the doctor to give him."

"I mean, really Liz, he just knows? With no blood test?" She chided. "He just guesses and gives medicine on what he thinks? Harrumph!"

"Dog tags." Trent reminded Betty who slapped her forehead. Right. Eric had stressed, that though she might not understand the medical references on the military issued tags, a doctor would. "If he'd gotten worse, you would've contacted the resident doctor, the resort manager, a 911 call would've gone out, Blackburn would've been all over it."

"A lot of unnecessary fuss." Mrs. Bonsky tut-tutted disapprovingly. "And how would Eric know about a 911 call made from here?"

"Cause, ma'am, we are, uh...um...yeah, property of the United States Navy." Metal had set up, was rubbing sleep from his eyes, patting his every-which-way hair down. "The military has invested millions of dollars in….well…uh….he'd know."

"Mmmm." She wasn't satisfied. "In the middle of a crisis, a natural disaster, he'd just snap his fingers, wave a hand and wah-lah, instant retrieval. That it?"

"Yeah, in Airwolf." Trent teased, she scowled.

"It's Spenser, they'd want him back."

"And, he's so special, why?" She countered.

"Cause his….uh….he's talented, got a talent….yeah." Metal pushed to his feet, stepped out of his nest of blankets. "You here for a bit? Gonna go find something to eat."

Trent waved him on his way.

"Toast?" Clay yawned, stretched. "Maybe some…pudding?"

"Really?" Metal rolled his eyes, hand on the doorknob. "Now you want to eat? You're hungry?"

Clay looked up through bangs with puffy eyes still fuzzy with sleep and medications. "Uh, kinda?" He said uncertainly. He was used to being given pudding or jello whenever he asked for it, not questioned. "When'd…you guys get'ere?"

"When?" Metal repeated. "When, not why? You don't wanna know why?"

Palm to forehead, Clay tried to pull his thoughts together, but they stubbornly resisted being collected, remained scattered and distant. He hurt, his body ached, he wasn't comfortable, his leg was actively trying to disconnect from his hip and he was cold.

Trent watched his youngest teammate struggle to pull it together. He'd done this so many times, he knew the signs: tightly closed eyes, hand to head, tongue between his teeth, rapid breathing.

"What the fuck'd you do Spenser?" He asked, walked over to adjust the temperature on the a/c unit.

"Capitulated." Clay winced, shivering. "Didn't…uh…want another mug chucked at my head."

"Jason doesn't miss 'less he wants to."

"Or forgets." Metal added dryly. "Why I'm here." Because though it had been months ago when he'd lost Clay in his own house, Jason had yet to forgive him for it.

"Me too." Clay shuddered, goosebumps popped up on his arms and Trent snagged a blanket from Metal's makeshift bed. "Some….week…of…rest." He rubbed his eyes with closed fists, itched. "Feel like….shit."

"Because you aren't drinking enough." Trent tossed the second blanket over him. "Been dizzy?"

Rapidly, he darted his eyes left, right, up, down, left. "Uh….no…don't think so." He lifted his head, gave it a shake. "No." He paused, snuggled under the blankets. "Why?"

"Kidney?" Trent reminded him. "I can take your blood pressure."

"What? Why?" He was silent. "Oh." More silence. "Nah, I'm good….pudding though?" He looked at Metal. "Choco…" He swallowed, itched, grimaced. "…..late."

Mrs. Bonsky eyed Metal, decided he wasn't capable of locating chocolate pudding on his own, heaved a put-out/put-upon sigh. "I'd better go help you, make sure you get it right."

"To find chocolate pudding? Not hard to identify." Metal held the door open, followed her through it. "You can make the toast though."

The door closed behind them.

"I should've guessed." Betty said despondently, "That I missed something."

"You mean, membe mud in his ear that just happened to contain a trace of something he was allergic to?" Trent mocked, saw her face, relented. "Look, it's Clay, I've had years to figure him out. Access to top-rate medical care. Doc."

"You never have doubts?" She glanced at Clay, who had disappeared under the blankets. "Feel over-whelmed?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes." He admitted. "He scared the shit outta me, but Blackburn brought Doc to the team, and it got easier." He paused, "I never let the team know."

"They knew."

He nodded. "Yeah, and they all help, but it's never really talked about. Can't be a field medic, you let everything get to you. Can't be a sniper, if killing people makes you lose sleep. Can't be a team leader if decisions keep you up at night."

"But you've never met anyone like Clay, huh?"

"Nope."

"Still, with everything Eric has told me, I thought I understood." She got up to fold clean towels, keep her hands busy. "Always thought what he could tell me, he embellished to make the story amusing, you know?"

Trent studied her. He knew damn well Bravo's Lt. Commander shared more with this wife than he should, but also knew, it wasn't nearly everything.

"He probably does."

"Now I feel awful, you and Scott came all the way out here, in a canoe for God's Sake, for nothing."

"Wasn't for nothing." He assured her. "Dunno what wudda happened, and he needed meds, so..." He wasn't used to giving comfort. "Life with Clay….we should write a book."

"If Eric hadn't sent you and he got worse, after I boo-hoo'd him about Clay," She hesitated. "I'm not sure about Vic, and….what if….what if the allergy had been severe or the gunshot had been…..life-threatening?"

"Lopez is an ass, but he isn't stupid. He wudda take care of the situation."

"He didn't do such a good job, now did he?"

"Clay's fucking resilient, he can and will fight through anything – if – when he has to. It's just….we kinda don't make him...have to, you know? We like having him to…" He searched for a word, settled on, worry. "…worry about and he lets us, so….it, uh, works." He shrugged. "Things would be different, he ran with another team, will be, when he leads this one. 'Til then, if me and Metal have to paddle a canoe or Jason has to go up a mountain to get him and Brock has to put him up for a couple of weeks…we're okay with that."

"He's lucky, you are."

"We took a vote." Trent grinned. "When we first got him, we didn't know what to do with him. We'd never had a rookie, never had someone so young. We let him get away with shit, didn't set him straight, let him...aah...well...cling, I guess, so blame us."

"Has he been like this since he joined up?"

"We talked to a guy from one of his earlier teams…he's always had a propensity to go missing, but the rest is on us."

"Eric says…." She paused. "Well, right."

"He scares the hell outta us. Stupid risks, reckless choices, irresponsible decisions, yet, we all come home."

"Yeah, but…."

"Maybe if Lopez had stayed with Clay, the kid wudda taken simple meds, kept his fever down and we wouldn't be here." He cast a glance - one she would almost call affectionate - towards the bed. "Lopez is in for a world of hurt. Once Blackburn's done with him, it's Jason's turn and then," He grinned evilly, "there's gonna come the day, he catches Sonny in a bad mood."

"We tried, he knows….."

"In his befuddled state, he didn't know you enough to trust you. To take anything from you." He gave her a genuine smile. "And you're female."

"There's Davis." She pointed out.

"She's rarely alone with him."

She smiled, headed to the door. "I'm gonna continue to dye Eric's beard for him, just….might not tease him so much anymore." She paused. "Though, I find I don't much care for the thought of him fighting naked women with pillows."

Trent laughed. "It was a sight to see."

She noted he didn't dispute her description of naked. "That….doesn't happen often, right?"

"Never in my career, 'til Spenser...have I….uh…no."

***000***

Eric Blackburn was not a happy man.

He was on his way to retrieve half a Navy Seal Team worth multiple millions of dollars from a luxurious health spa that catered to elderly rich ladies because his wife had convinced him she was 'capable of watching a grown man; aka, his headache, his reason for grey hair, his reason for an addiction to Pepto, his reason for drinking - Clay Spenser.

He should have known, anything to do with 'that kid' would cost him. It always did. Clay Spenser was not cheap to keep.

He hadn't expected a hurricane – who had? – one hadn't been forecasted, but he hadn't been surprised when one hit the mountains of North Carolina, because he should have known.

He hadn't expected anyone would shoot the kid, but he hadn't been at all surprised to receive the phone call that someone had, because he should have known.

An allergy?  
A rash?  
A fever?  
Mud in his ears?

He should have known.

But he hadn't. Had allowed himself to believe, with no signs of infection….all would be well.

"Far as we can go by vehicle sir." The SUV in which he occupied the rear seat came to a halt, idled. "There's a boat waiting for you."

Great. A boat. Well, least it was no longer raining and the wind had subsided, but it was hot and muggy...ugh...he should have known.

***000***

Metal returned alone with chocolate pudding, toast, orange juice and a ham sandwich.

"Juice and sandwich are for you." He explained to Trent, set the glass and plate on the desk. "Can get in and out by motorized boat now."

"I ate."

"Fruit ain't a meal." He approached the bed. "Hey-hey twinkle-toes, you awake?"

"If'n I gotta be."

"I brought toast and pudding."

Why Metal was telling him that, Clay couldn't fathom. He wasn't hungry at all. He ached, felt tired, was comfortable and warm beneath the blankets and he wished to remain there.

"Sit up." Metal ordered. "The hell you do to him? He wasn't all spaced out when I left."

"Shot of Benadryl."

"For what?"

"Guessed he was allergic to something in the mud."

"The rash?"

"Then the itchin'"

"So, not the holes in his leg, that brought us here?"

Trent shook his head. "Blackburn will be here soon. What'd you do with Lopez?" He gave Clay a shake. "Need you to sit up, eat something."

"Not...hungry."

"He's in the kitchen."

"Don't care. You've had a lot of meds, you're gonna eat."

()()()

Called in front of the man who had the authority to relocate him to some distant land, such as Svalbard, Vic wasn't as confident and cocky has he had been with Trent and Metal...'Cause Lt. Commander Eric Blackburn _looked_ ready to order him to walk to the North Pole!

His boss was pacing as he verbally spewed everything he'd learned from his wife and Trent. "You _shot_ him?" Eric was currently saying incredulously for the fourth, maybe fifth time, as he paced, pivoted, strode.

"I yelled at him to stop. I didn't know who it was, I told him to put his hands in the air."

"You _fired_ your weapon!?" Eric whirled on one heel, stared, turned away. "The hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking he was a bear!" Vic lost all patience, didn't care who he was yelling at. "He was wearing a black raincoat..."

Eric raised a hand. "Who are you raising your voice to?" He waited, Vic flushed, muttered an apology. "He didn't have a flashlight?"

"Dunno."

"He couldn't hear you, you ass." Metal spoke up.

"It was raining, not thundering."

"His ears were full of mud."

"Not my fault." Vic objected.

"You didn't push him into a pit of mud?"

"Hey, he showered….his problem."

Eric clapped his hands. "You're damn lucky no one reported gun shots."

"Still gotta explain two gunshots in his leg." Trent said mildly. "I won't report it, but Doc?" he shrugged, "you know he will."

"He's fine, why drag Doc into this?" Vic asked petulantly. "Christ!"

"Be….ca...use…." Trent drawled. "Clay's under his care for a bruised kidney and when he sees Doc to get the all-clear to return to duty, Doc's gonna identify the fucking gun shot."

Right. Yeah. There was that.

The door flew opened...and...in strode the women.

"YOU!" Mrs. Bonsky exclaimed the moment her eyes found Eric.

"Edna."

"…..never again! Do you hear me?" Mrs. Bonsky waggled a finger. "…will I do you a favor!"

Scratching his beard, Eric blinked. She'd done him a favor? What? When? Explain, please.

"…..never again…will you assign me to accompany that dick anywhere!" Vic added. "I ain't no babysitter!"

Eric blinked. Oh, yes you are and yes, you will. It's punishment. You ever gonna figure that out?

"…..scantily clad women?" His wife was glaring at him. Oh-oh. "Think, I Dream of Jeannie, you said. Wisps of gauze? You didn't mention, see-through clothing! Never again, will you leave details like those out!"

Eric blinked. He'd been too busy trying to keep a hold of Spenser and duck flying pillows to be concerned with who wore what. Only one person in the room had been there to describe what little clothing the women had worn. He glared at Trent who beamed a shit-eating grin right back at him.

 _What's with all the yelling? Why's't gotta be in my room?_ _….go 'way, lemme 'lone…._

Clay rolled onto his back, blinked his eyes open. The light in the room wasn't bright, but he squinted anyway.

"Blackburn." He pushed up, managed to gain a half-upright slouch against the pillows. Man, he was tired. No, not tired. Weak. He felt wiped, just….blah.

"Spenser."

Ooohh….that look, that tone, that stance – yeah, he was in trouble.

"We leaving?" Vic asked crossly.

"What the hell is it, with you and floods? Christ!" Eric dragged his palms down his cheeks, rubbed his chin. "Trent?"

"Morning."

"How many floods has he been in?" Mrs. Bonsky asked.

"Uh, three? Three."

"Right?"

"Janine meeting you?"

"She'll pick us up in the parking lot of the movie theatre."

"Us?" Vic repeated.

"Not you."

"How'm I getting home?" Vic demanded. "Driving your fancy SUV back?"

"I will escort the ladies." Eric told him. He intended to remain at the resort until the roads were passable by vehicle. If he tried to put his mother-in-law in a small, rubber boat, he'd have to get divorced, change his name, transfer to the island he was going to banish Lopez to. "You can either find your own way home or go with Metal."

"Wait….what?" Clay yawned. "Janine's here?"

"With all the kids. You get to ride home with us in the RV."

"All? Ain't that like, nine? Why?" Clay swallowed, licked his lips. "Wait, RV? No." He shuddered. A tour bus wouldn't be big enough.

"I came here in a canoe, you're going home in an RV." Trent informed him. "Get some sleep while you can. Kids can't wait to play with uncle Clay!"

Clay glared, Trent laughed, Eric pulled a flask from a pocket, Betty whisked it away from him while her mother handed him a glass of water.

"Never again," Eric muttered to his wife. "Am I gonna let you talk me into taking Clay Spenser anywhere."

()()()

Mrs. Bonsky set two glasses of lemonade on the table, sat down across from her son-in-law.

Activity was returning to normal at the resort, most people remained in the common areas where there was electricity and a/c, courtesy of the generator and Eric had commandeered a table and set up communications.

"You didn't come here to check on your wife." She stated.

"I did not."

"Are these men that important to you?"

"Edna." Eric said with a patience he did not feel. "You need to understand just what kind of man Clay is."

"Oh, I completely understand! He is…."

"Navy. Elite. Special Ops." Eric cut her off. "Highly trained."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure he can swim the seven seas and scale the highest mountain," She waved him off. "Leap the widest chasm."

"He's a trained sniper." Eric said bluntly. He often wondered if anything would ever shut his mother-in-law up. "You do know what a sniper is, don't you?"

"I do. Dead accuracy with a high-power weapon. He perches in trees that apparently grow moss." She waved a hand. "He's a SEAL, you're a SEAL, everyone's a SEAL, yes, yes, I know."

Eric rubbed his forehead. "Edna! He's a highly trained kil...uh, sniper! One of the best in…"

"Your Navy?" She scoffed. "Bah!"

"The world."

"Oh." She was momentarily set back. "Well then."

"If he didn't have someone to trust, he ever went rogue…..he could hire out as a hitman….never be caught by authorities, if he was, he has the skills, talent and training to escape. It would take someone like him to catch him." There, that should scare her.

She eagerly rubbed her palms together. "Jason Bourne, eh?"

Well, that method failed. He tried again.

"His mathematical ability, language skills, aptitude to blend in, he'd never be found."

"He'd have a handler, though, right?" She smirked at Eric's expression. "What, I read you know. Rather fond of spy novels."

"Not real Edna."

"Bah," She waved him off. "Entertaining though. Let an old lady have some fun with her imagination."

Eric sighed, he simply couldn't make her understand Clay wasn't the boy next door. He could snap at any time, would kill on demand without discretion - did.

She leaned over, took his hand, held it. "Then it's a good thing he has you." She winked.

***END***


End file.
